"Well, it isn't!" snapped young Kennilworth. "It's going to be a terror! But at least it shall be pretty!" Under young Kennilworth's crafty hand the little village certainly had bloomed from a child's pretty toy into the very real beauty of an artist's ideal. The skill of laying out little streets one way instead of another, the decision to place the tiny red schoolhouse here instead of there, the choice of a linden rather than a pinetree to shade an infinitesimal green-thatched cottage, had all combined in some curious twinge of charm to make your senses yearn--not that all that cunning perfection should swell suddenly to normal real estate dimensions--but that you, reduced by some lovely miracle to toy-size, might slip across that toy-sized greensward into one of those toy-sized houses, and live with toy-sized passions and toy-sized ambitions and toy-sized joys and toy-sized sorrows, one single hour of a toy-sized life. Everybody, I guess, experienced the same strange little flutter. "That house shall be mine!" affirmed George Keets quite abruptly. "That gray stone one with the big bay-window and the pink rambler rose. The bay-window room I'm sure would make me a fine study. And----" From an excessively delicate readjustment of a loose shutter on a rambling brown bungalow young Kennilworth looked up with a certain flicker of exasperation. "Live anywhere you choose!" he snapped. "Miss Davies and I are going to live--here!" "W--What?" stammered the May Girl. "What?" "Here!" grinned young Kennilworth. "Oh--no," said the May Girl. Without showing the slightest offense she seemed suddenly to be quite positive about it. "Oh, no!--If I live anywhere it's going to be in the gray stone house with Mr. Keets. It's so infinitely more convenient to the schools." "To the what?" chuckled Kennilworth. Before the very evident astonishment and discomfiture in George Keets's face, his own was convulsed with joy. "To the schools," dimpled the May Girl. "You do me a--a very great honor," bowed George Keets. His face was scarlet. "Thank you," said the May Girl. In the second's somewhat panicky pause that ensued Rollins flopped forward with his note-book. Rollins evidently had been waiting a long and impatient time for such a pause. "Now speaking of drinking to drown one's Sorrows--" beamed Rollins. "But we weren't!" observed George Keets coldly. "But you were this morning!" triumphed Rollins. From the flapping white pages of the little black note-book he displayed with pride the entries that he had already made, a separate name heading each page--Mrs. Delville--Mr. Delville--Mr. Keets--Miss Davies--the list began. "Now take the hypothesis," glowed Rollins, "that everybody has got just two bottles stowed away for all time, the very last bottles I mean that he will ever own, rum--rye--Benedictine--any thing you choose--and eliminating the first bottle as the less significant of the two--what are you saving the last one for!" demanded Rollins.