The Harringtons, John Hewitt, with Gail and her cousin, not to speak of Joy, were enjoying an unseasonably hot day in the Harrington garden. They had all been playing tennis, and now everybody was sitting or lying about, getting rested. The trees kept the morning sun from being too much of a nuisance, and there was a tray with lemonade, and sweet biscuits which were unquestionably going to ruin everybody's luncheon appetite. "What that child needs," answered his father, taking another glass of lemonade and the remaining biscuits, "is young life-companions his own age." They had all been racking their brains to think of a punishment that would fit Philip's crime, or at least some warning that would bring it home to him. He had been led by Viola, subdued and courteous, to tell Miss Addison that he had deceived her. He did, very carefully. "But it _might_ of been my father," he explained as he ended. "Oughtn't we to be glad that it wasn't my father, Miss Addison?" Miss Addison, quite nonplused by this unexpected moral turn to the conversation, had acknowledged defeat, and fed Philip largely. He had a very good time, apparently, for he grieved to Viola all the way home over Angela's missing such a pleasant afternoon. When he returned he flung himself on Allan. "Oh, Father, _please_ let Angela go, too, next time I go 'pologizing!" he implored. "There were such nice little cakes--just the kind Mother lets her eat!" Allan shook his head despairingly. "Please remove him, Viola," he said. "I want to think." Not only he, but Phyllis and John, had spent a day thinking. No one had, as yet, reached any conclusion at all. "It's all very well for you to be carefree," he said now to John, who was laughing like the others. "It isn't up to you to see that the young idea shoots straight." John's face remained quite cheerful. "Well, you see, I have Joy's manners and morals to look after," he said, glancing across at her in a friendly way. "That's enough for one man." Joy curled on the warm grass, laughed lazily. She was too pleasantly tired from tennis to answer. She only curled her feet under her and burrowed into the grass a little more, like a happy kitten. It didn't seem as if anything ever need interrupt her happiness. And as Phyllis had had the happy thought of ordering luncheon brought out to where they were, there seemed no reason why they should ever move. There was a feeling of unchangingness about the wonderfully holding summer weather, and the general lazy routine, that was as delightful as it was illusive. For the very next day things began to happen. They were just finishing breakfast when a telegram came. "I suppose it's from the De Guenthers, telling us which train to meet," Phyllis said carelessly, as she opened it.... "Oh!" "What is it, dear?" asked Allan at her exclamation of distress. She handed him the telegram. "Isabel suddenly ill with inflammatory rheumatism. Fear it may affect heart. Can you come on?"