"Yes, my boy; I do know," Mrs. Thatcher answered. "Ever since you were old enough to play with toys it has always been soldiers and wars. I have thanked God that war was a horror of the past, for I know how hard it would be to hold you back if the opportunity offered." "If he goes, then I go with him," Billy said with decision. "You both had better wait until war is declared by somebody against somebody else," Cosden suggested. "You don't think they'll patch it up, do you?" Philip inquired anxiously. "Let us hope so," Mrs. Thatcher answered; "but this is a pleasure expedition. Let us banish thoughts of war." As the launch rounded a rocky promontory a roaring fire was disclosed burning on the beach, around which several of the house servants were already busied in preparing supper. Back from the beach, beneath great spreading oaks, a cloth was laid on the ground, to which the contents of the hampers were being transferred. The usual limitations of camp life were conspicuous by their absence, the fascinations were emphasized by the marvelous smoothness with which everything was conducted. "I don't call this picnicking," Edith declared, after her first taste of chowder. "Plant a forest of trees in Sherry's ball-room, paint an ocean on the wall, fake a moon rising over the orchestra stage, everybody sit cross-legged on the floor,--and there you have it. Sherry certainly couldn't improve on the service or the food." "I can't find even an ant on mine," Billy complained, corroborating Edith's praise. "Champagne like this is far too good for the common people," added Cosden turning to Mrs. Thatcher. "How did you do it? It is the apotheosis of gipsy life, and makes me reluctant to return to civilization." Billy edged around until he gained a seat next to Merry. "This feast might have been in honor of our marriage," he whispered. "It's all your fault that I'm going to war, and if I'm shot up I'll come back and haunt you." "Don't, Billy!" Merry sputtered, laughing and choking,--"you'll make me swallow this the wrong way. There--" she continued as she recovered; "that's better. Now don't be silly or you'll spoil our fun. We are going to be good friends always, and that's all there is to it." "You wait. You've been lots happier since I told you that you loved me, now haven't you? I know. You think it's a joke because you think I'm a joke, but when once I've gone to war you'll understand. I'll bet you even that you'll chase after me as a Red Cross nurse, and that I'll die with my head in your lap. Do you take me?" Phil approached near enough to put an end to the proposition without Merry's reply. "Do you suppose there's anything in this war talk?" he queried, sitting down beside them. "Not a thing," his sister replied. "That would be too absurd." "If there is, I could at least go as a correspondent,--that is, if Dad could spare me. I'm terribly keen about this."