“Well, they don’t mind saying I belong to Birge’s Corners—reward sufficient.” Thurley stood up to wave a welcoming arm to a small person in flowered organdie and a huge shade hat, who was making her way across the lawn, squired by her todding son. “I want you to meet Lorraine Birge,” she explained swiftly. “Lorraine is my right hand man—now.” She did not add what had happened—the awful, furious moment when Lorraine was summoned home from public speaking to witness the result of Herta’s carelessness regarding Boy—the fall from the window with the fractured arms as a result. It had banished the war-madness; the old, gentle Lorraine, with an added strength of purpose perhaps born of her tiny sojourn into the world, returned for all time. With Thurley as her “guardian angel,” she once more recreated her house as Dan had left it—and would expect it—nursing her child, shaking her head firmly when committees asked when she would join them once again! Lorraine hesitated when she saw the strangers, but Boy ambled along to garrote Hobart’s watch chain and with his fingers clutch Polly’s red hat brim so there was no chance for further reserve and the quartette sat chatting of the Fincherie work, and of the future art colony soon to be in evidence until the chimes struck five and Lorraine bundled her son under her arm and made for her motor car. “Isn’t she the wife of—of—” Polly asked curiously. “Of Dan,” Thurley admitted. “She most surely is—and we are the best of friends. Not even Dan could come between us! We each made a mistake, and then unmade it, and that inspired us with mutual pity and admiration,—understand?” “When are you going to sing next?” Bliss Hobart asked. “When I have time! Don’t bother me about singing. I’m so busy and so happy that I haven’t time to plan.” Ali Baba, important in a new uniform, came across the lawn to tell Thurley the New York train had brought her four guests. “You’ll be real glad to see three of them, and real sorry to see the fourth,” he whispered patronizingly, “the fourth is that artist—he’s blind!” Polly sprang to her feet. “I knew it—I knew it,” she said breathlessly. It was quite true. The over brilliant, joyous eyes faced the darkness for all time. Mark Wirth had acted as his courier and as the trio came into the reception room, Ernestine and Caleb stood in the background and Collin tried to smile at them while Mark raised his hand to suppress their exclamations. “We’ve come to belong to Ali Baba’s forty thieves,” said Ernestine, to break the silence. “We’re as tired and hungry as four people can be. Collin has splendid things to tell you, he is very shy about letting us know how wonderful he has been.” Her voice broke and she looked at Caleb to take up the burden. But Caleb was staring at Collin, whose sensitive face quivered as a woman’s does before she cries. He made no response.