"I mean to be one when I grow up," Patience told him, "so's I can have a room like this--with just rugs on the floor; rugs slide so nicely--and window seats and things all cluttery." "May I come and have tea with you? I'd like it awfully." "It'll be really tea--not pretend kind," Patience said. "But I'll have that sort for any children who may come. Hilary takes pictures--she doesn't make them though. Made pictures are nicer, aren't they?" "Some of them." Harry glanced through the open doorway, to where Hilary sat resting. She was "making" a picture now, he thought to himself, in her white dress, under the big tree, her pretty hair forming a frame about her thoughtful face. Taking a portfolio from a table near by, he went out to where Hilary sat. "Your small sister says you take pictures," he said, drawing a chair up beside hers, "so I thought perhaps you'd let me show you these--they were taken by a friend of mine." "Oh, but mine aren't anything like these! These are beautiful!" Hilary bent over the photographs he handed her; marveling over their soft tones. They were mostly bits of landscape, with here and there a water view and one or two fleecy cloud effects. It hardly seemed as though they could be really photographs. "I've never done anything like these!" she said regretfully. "I wish I could--there are some beautiful views about here that would make charming pictures." "She didn't in the beginning," Harry said, "She's lame; it was an accident, but she can never be quite well again, so she took this up, as an amusement at first, but now it's going to be her profession." Hilary bent over the photographs again. "And you really think--anyone could learn to do it?" "No, not anyone; but I don't see why the right sort of person couldn't." "I wonder--if I could develop into the right sort." "May I come and see what you have done--and talk it over?" Harry asked. "Since this friend of mine took it up, I'm ever so interested in camera work." "Indeed you may," Hilary answered. She had never thought of her camera holding such possibilities within it, of its growing into something better and more satisfying than a mere playmate of the moment. "Rested?" Pauline asked, coming up. "Supper's nearly ready." "I wasn't very tired. Paul, come and look at these." Supper was served on the lawn; the pleasantest, most informal, of affairs, the presence of the older members of the party serving to turn the gay give and take of the young folks into deeper and wider channels, and Shirley's frequent though involuntary--"Do you remember, Senior?" calling out more than one vivid bit of travel, of description of places, known to most of them only through books.