The island was a favourite play. Somewhere in the warm seas where palm trees are, and rainbow-coloured sands, the island was said to be--their own island, beautified by their fancy with everything they liked and wanted, and Philip was never tired of talking about it. There were times when he almost believed that the island was real. He was king of the island and Helen was queen, and no one else was to be allowed on it. Only these two. But this morning even the thought of the island failed to charm. Philip straggled away to the window and looked out dismally at the soaked lawn and the dripping laburnum trees, and the row of raindrops hanging fat and full on the iron gate. 'What is it, Pippin?' Helen asked. 'Don't tell me you're going to have horrid measles, or red-hot scarlet fever, or noisy whooping-cough.' She came across and laid her hand on his forehead. 'Why, you're quite hot, boy of my heart. Tell sister, what is it?' '_You_ tell _me_,' said Philip slowly. 'Tell you what, Pip?' 'You think you ought to bear it alone, like in books, and be noble and all that. But you _must_ tell me; you promised you'd never have any secrets from me, Helen, you know you did.' Helen put her arm round him and said nothing. And from her silence Pip drew the most desperate and harrowing conclusions. The silence lasted. The rain gurgled in the water-pipe and dripped on the ivy. The canary in the green cage that hung in the window put its head on one side and tweaked a seed husk out into Philip's face, then twittered defiantly. But his sister said nothing. 'Don't,' said Philip suddenly, 'don't break it to me; tell me straight out.' 'Tell you what?' she said again. 'What is it?' he said. '_I_ know how these unforetold misfortunes happen. Some one always comes--and then it's broken to the family.' '_What_ is?' she asked. 'The misfortune,' said Philip breathlessly. 'Oh, Helen, I'm not a baby. Do tell me! Have we lost our money in a burst bank? Or is the landlord going to put bailiffs into our furniture? Or are we going to be falsely accused about forgery, or being burglars?' All the books Philip had ever read worked together in his mind to produce these melancholy suggestions. Helen laughed, and instantly felt a stiffening withdrawal of her brother from her arm. 'No, no, my Pippin, dear,' she made haste to say. 'Nothing horrid like that has happened.' 'Then what is it?' he asked, with a growing impatience that felt like a wolf gnawing inside him. 'I didn't want to tell you all in a hurry like this,' she said anxiously; 'but don't you worry, my boy of boys. It's something that makes me very happy. I hope it will you, too.' He swung round in the circling of her arm and looked at her with sudden ecstasy. 'Oh, Helen, dear--I know! Some one has left you a hundred thousand pounds a year--some one you once opened a railway-carriage door for--and now I can have a pony of my very own to ride. Can't I?'