"Does God make roses?" "Yes, dearie." "Who made God?" Her mother smiled. "He made Himself. God makes everything, dearie." With troubled brows the little one asked: "Did God sit down when He made His feet?" Came from the house Elinor. She moved lithely, swiftly, now. The old tan had come back to her cheek; she was no longer an invalid. "More roses, Kate?" she asked, brightly. Kathryn nodded. "Yes," she said. "It seems almost brutal to cut them, doesn't it? But I love them in my room; and they won't grow there." "Then sleep out here. It's quite the thing, nowadays." Kathryn smiled a little. "You're so frightfully lacking in sensibilities, Nell." "And," returned her practical sister, "a lot more comfortable because I am." She seated herself. "Tom's back," she announced. A quick little gleam of gladness sprang to the violet eyes. "Is he?" Elinor nodded, nonchalantly. "Yes, that floating palace of his dropped anchor about ten minutes ago. They were lowering a launch as I came downstairs." "Oh!" cried Muriel, excitedly dropping the roses to the lawn. "There he is now! I can hear him winding up his boat!" She rang at headlong speed through that arbor way. Another moment and Blake had entered, carrying her in his arms. Kathryn extended her hand to him; he took it in warm, firm, friendly clasp. Elinor nodded. "'Lo, Tom," was her salutation. "'Lo, Nell," he returned. "You're getting fat." "The same to you, and many of 'em," she replied. "Have a good time?" "Oh, the same old sea-saw." He shrugged broad shoulders. "This running a sailors' boarding house isn't what it's cracked up to be. We hit a three- day executive session of a northeast storm off the Banks that kept us exceedingly busy. Everyone on board was seasick--except the cook." "Tom," interrupted Kathryn, "I wish you'd come into the library a moment. My lawyers have sent me some papers to sign and return, and I can't make head nor tail of them." "Of course you can't," he said, assuringly. "I never know what my lawyers are doing. If I did, I'd fire them and do it myself. And they realize it. A lawyer can order a fried egg, cooked on one side only, and make it sound like a royal proclamation announcing a total change of the currency system. They're like doctors and clairvoyants. Their graft lies in being mysterious. Why does a doctor call pink eye _muco puerpural conjunctivitis_? Because pink eye is not worth more than a dollar at the outside; but when he hands you _muco puerpural conjunctivitis_, he can get twenty-five at least before you wake up and say, 'Where am I?'" His humor, perhaps, was forced; possibly there was nothing funny in what he said; but they laughed. There was always a tension at "Grey Rocks," now--always a strain. It needed little to relieve it; it needed that little badly. Blake gave to that little all that he could.