Charlotte stood still, her arms tightening about the daisies and buttercups, as if they represented a baby whom she must not let fall.  A rich wave of colour swept over her face.  She looked from one to another of the group as if she could not believe her good fortune.  Then suddenly she dropped her flowers in an abandoned heap, clasped her hands tightly together, and drew one long breath of delight.

“Can you spare me?” she murmured, her eyes upon her mother.

Mrs. Birch nodded, smiling.  “I surely can,” she said.

“Turn about is fair play,” said Mr. Birch, “and your uncle seems to consider himself a person of authority.”

“I want,” declared Captain Rayburn, his bright eyes studying each niece’s winsome young face in turn, “in the interest of the family orchestra, to tune the violins.”

* * * * *

“Speaking of violins,” said the captain, half an hour later, quite as if no interval of busy talk and plan-making had occurred, “suppose we see about how far off the key they are at present.  Jeff—­Just——­”

Everybody stared, then laughed, for Jeff and Just instantly produced, from behind that same screen, five green-flanneled, familiar shapes.  The entire company had reassembled under the oak-trees, drawn together by a secret summons from the captain.

“Now see here, Uncle Ray,” remonstrated his eldest nephew, “this is stealing a march on us with a vengeance.”

“I’m entirely willing you should let a march steal on me,” retorted the captain, disposing himself comfortably among his rugs and cushions, “or a waltz, or a lullaby, or anything else you choose.  But music of some sort I must have.”

Laughing, they tuned their instruments, and the rest of the company settled down to listen.  Lanse, his eyes mischievous, passed a whispered word among the musicians, and presently, at the signal, the well-known notes of “Hail to the Chief” were sounding through the woods, played with great spirit and zest.  And as they played, the five Birches marched to position in front of the captain, then stood still and saluted.

“Off with you, you strolling players!” cried the captain.  “The spectacle of a ’cello player attempting to carry his instrument and perform upon it at the same time is enough to upset me for a week.  Sit down comfortably, and give us ‘The Sweetest Flower That Blows.’”

So they played, softly now, and with full appreciation of the fact that the melodious song was one of their mother’s favourites.

But suddenly they had a fresh surprise, for as they played, a voice from the little audience joined them, under his breath at first, then—­as the captain turned and made vigorous signs to the singer to let his voice be heard—­with tunefully swelling notes, which fell upon all their ears like music of a rare sort: 

    “The sweetest flower that blows
      I give you as we part. 
    To you it is a rose,
      To me it is my heart.”