Somehow, with the words came a flood of memory pictures. There was Philip by the camp fire in Arcadia whittling his ridiculous wildwood pipe; Philip aboard the hay-camp and Philip in the garb of a nomadic Greek; Philip unwinding the music-machine for the staring Indians and building himself a tunic with Sho-caw's sewing machine; Philip and a moon above the marsh-- Utter loyalty and unchanging protection! Shaking, the girl covered her face with her hands. The boat's bow touched the shore; whistling softly, Philip leaped ashore and moored it. "Diane!" he said gently. The girl raised glistening, glorified eyes to his face and smiled, a radiant smile for all her eyes were bright with unshed tears. Philip held out his arms. The silvered sheet of water rippled placidly at their feet. There was wind among the birches. They watched the great moon sail behind a cloud and emerge, flooding the sylvan world with light. "Sweetheart," said Philip suddenly, "I thought that Arcadia was back there in Connecticut by the river, but it's here too! Dear little gypsy, it is everywhere that you are!" "It will be Arcadia--always!" said Diane, "for Arcadia is Together-land, isn't it, Philip?" The moon and Philip answered.