As for the May Girl herself, as far as I could observe, not a single sound emanated from her the entire day, except the occasional clank of her hugely over-sized "betrothal ring" against the Pom dog's collar, or the little gasping phrase, "Oh, no, Mr. Rollins! Not _really_?" that thrilled now and then from her astonished lips, as, elbows on table, chin cupped in hand, she sat staring blue-eyed and bland at her--tormentor. It must have been five o'clock, almost, before the beach party returned. Gleaming like a great bunch of storm-drenched jonquils, the six adventurers loomed up cheerfully in the rain-light. Once again George Keets and the Bridegroom were dragging the Bride by her hand. Ann Woltor and my Husband followed just behind. Allan John walked alone. Even young Kennilworth came out on the porch to hail them. "Hi, there!" called my Husband. "Hi, there, yourself!" retaliated Kennilworth. "Oh, we've had a perfectly wonderful day! gasped the Bride. "Found the cave all right!" triumphed Keets. "Allan John found a--found an old-fashioned hoop-skirt!" giggled the Bride. "The devil he did!" hooted Rollins. "But we never found the trunk at all!" scolded the Bridegroom. "Either we were way off in our calculations or else the sand----" In a sudden gusty flutter of white the May Girl came round the corner into the full buffet of the wind. It hadn't occurred to me before just exactly how tired she looked. "Why, hello, everybody--" she began, faltered an instant--crumpled up at the waist-line--and slipped down in a white heap of unconsciousness to the floor. It was George Keets who reached her first, and gathering her into his long, strong arms, bore her into the house. It was the first time in his life I think that George Keets had ever held a woman in his arms. His eyes hardly knew what to make of it. And his tightened lips, quite palpably, didn't like it at all. But after all it was those extraordinarily human shoulders of his that were really doing the carrying? Very fortunately though for all concerned the whole scare was over in a minute. Ensconced like a queen in the deep pillows of the big library sofa the May Girl rallied almost at once to joke about the catastrophe. But she didn't want any supper, I noticed, and dallied behind in her cushions, when the supper-hour came. "You look like a crumpled rose," said the Bride. "Like a poor crumpled--white rose," supplemented Ann Woltor. "Like a very long-stemmed--poor crumpled--white rose," deprecated the May Girl herself. Kennilworth brought her a knife and fork, but no smiles. George Keets brought her several different varieties of his peculiarly tight-lipped smile, and all the requisite table-silver besides. Paul Brenswick sent her the cherry from his cocktail and promised her the frosting from his cake. The Bride sent her love. Ann Woltor remembered the table napkin. Allan John watched the proceedings without comment.