Pauline laughed. Suddenly she looked up from her flowers with sobered face. "I wonder," she said slowly, "if you know what it's meant to us--you're being here this summer, Shirley? Sometimes things do fit in just right after all. It's helped out wonderfully this summer, having you here and the manor open." "Pauline has a fairy-story uncle down in New York," Shirley turned to Harry. "You've heard of him--Mr. Paul Shaw." "Well,--rather! I've met him, once or twice--he didn't strike me as much of a believer in fairy tales." "He's made us believe in them," Pauline answered. "I think Senior might have provided me with such a delightful sort of uncle," Shirley observed. "I told him so, but he says, while he's awfully sorry I didn't mention it before, he's afraid it's too late now." "Uncle Paul sent us Bedelia," Pauline told the rather perplexed-looking Harry, "and the row-boat and the camera and--oh, other things." "Because he wanted them to have a nice, jolly summer," Shirley explained. "Pauline's sister had been sick and needed brightening up." "You don't think he's looking around for a nephew to adopt, do you?" Harry inquired. "A well-intentioned, intelligent young man--with no end of talent." "For making salads," Shirley added with a sly smile. "Oh, well, you know," Harry remarked casually, "these are what Senior calls my 'salad days.'" Whereupon Shirley rose without a word, carrying off her vases of flowers. The party at the manor was, like all the club affairs, a decided success. Never had the old place looked so gay and animated, since those far-off days of its early glory. The young people coming and going--the girls in their light dresses and bright ribbons made a pleasant place of the lawn, with its background of shining water. The tennis court, at one side of the house, was one of the favorite gathering spots; there were one or two boats out on the lake. The pleasant informality of the whole affair proved its greatest charm.