"Vere," he said gravely; "we're all fixed nice, Aunt Teddy, just ve way my mamma does when she's going to give me somefing good to eat." CHAPTER TWELVE "I really can't see why they should call this cottage Valhalla," Dr. McAlister said thoughtfully. "Probably because there isn't any hall, and the dining-room is a tight fit for five of us," Phebe answered, as she took a cup from the china closet without troubling herself to leave her seat at the table. "Teddy's establishment boasts the poetic name of Dandelion Lodge," Mrs. McAlister added. "There isn't a dandelion in sight, and, architecturally speaking, it is more like a hen-house than a lodge. Still, I suppose it is well to have a name, even if there isn't anything in it." "No matter," Hope said contentedly; "it's good to be free from the everlasting Belviews and Wavecrests. Valhalla isn't trite; Babe and I will be the Valkyries, and we have caught one hero already." She smiled at her father, as she spoke. "I intend to have another before I leave here," Phebe proclaimed, as she passed her plate for more fish. "One hero isn't enough for us; we need one apiece." "Where will you get him, sister Valkyrie?" "I don't know; out of the briny deep perhaps, but time will show." "'Or old Valhalla's roaring hail, Her ever-circling mead and ale,'" the doctor sang, and Phebe joined his song,-- "'Where for eternity unite The joys of wassail ad the fight,'" for the stirring ballad was a favorite with them both. Mac levelled his fork at them accusingly. "You mustn't sing at ve table. It's horrid to sing at ve table." "I beg your pardon, Mac," said his grandfather meekly. Outside their windows, the sun was glowing over the steel blue sea. Not a sail broke the distance; only the ceaseless tossing of white foam above the rips, and close at hand a dory or two, rocking and rolling just outside the line of surf. In the foreground was a broad strip of sand and silvery beach grass then a narrower strip of sand without any grass at all, and then the huge breakers which came crashing in, wave on wave, mounting up, curling over, falling, breaking and racing up the sharp slope of sand, with never a halt for rest. Beyond that, the sea; beyond that again, three thousand miles beyond, Spain.