"Glad he's not on mine," gurgled Aveline, settling herself comfortably on her pillow. "Couldn't you leave him until to-morrow?" "Certainly not! I shall wake you up and tell you when my idea arrives." "Help!" murmured her schoolmate, half-asleep. That night, when the whole household at the Grange was soundly wrapped in slumber, Aveline was suddenly brought back from a jumbled dream of punts, cows, and Latin exercises by feeling somebody shaking her persistently and urgently. "What's the matter?" she asked, sitting up in bed. "Is it Zepps?" "Sh--sh! Don't wake the whole dormitory, you goose!" came Raymonde's voice in a whisper. "Remember Gibbie's door's wide open, can't you? I've just got my idea." Aveline promptly lay down again and closed her eyes. "Won't it keep till to-morrow?" she murmured. "Certainly not! You've got to hear it now. Move further on--I'm coming into bed with you. That's better!" "But I'm so sleepy,"--rather crossly. "Don't be horrid! You might wake up for once, and listen!" "I am listening." "Well, I'll tell you, then. I said to myself when I began to think: 'What's wanted is a home for old Wilkinson!' and just now it suddenly flashed into my head: 'We'll make him one for ourselves!'" "Where?" "That's the point. The Bumble says she can't have him at the Grange--Hermie suggested that--and every place one knows of seems to belong to somebody who wants it--all except the island!" "What island? The one on the river?" "No, no! Not so far as that. The island on our moat, I mean. We'll build a little house for him, and he can have it all for his very own." "Wouldn't it--wouldn't it be rather difficult to build?" gasped Aveline, dazed at the magnitude of her chum's idea. "Oh, not impossible! There are heaps and heaps of railway sleepers down in the wood heap, and we could pile them up into a hut. It's only what people do out in Canada. Gibbie's always telling us tales of women who emigrate to the backwoods, and build colonies of log-cabins. Ave, you're not going to sleep again, are you?" "N--no!" came a rather languid voice; "but how'll we ever get to the island?" "We'll make a raft. We'll do it to-morrow, you and I. Don't tell any of the others yet. Morvyth's been so nasty lately, I'm fed up with her, and Ardiune would only laugh. When we've got the thing really started, we'll take them over and let them help, but not till then. Will you promise to keep it an absolute secret?" "I'll promise anything you like"--wearily--"if you'll only go back to your own bed." "All right, I'm off now--but just remember you're not to mention it to a single soul."