“Shirley did it yesterday afternoon,” Hilary explained.  “She was over here a good while.  Mrs. Boyd let us have the things and the chintz for the cushions, Shirley made them, and we filled them with hay.”

Pauline, sitting on the edge of the low porch, looked about her with appreciative eyes.  “How pleasant and cozy it is, and after all, it only took a little time and trouble.”

Hilary laid her new book on the table.  “How soon do you suppose we can go over to the manor, Paul?  I imagine the Dayres have fixed it up mighty pretty.  Mr. Dayre was over here, last night.  He and Shirley are ever so—­chummy.  He’s Shirley Putnam Dayre, and she’s Shirley Putnam Dayre, Junior.  So he calls her ‘Junior’ and she calls him ‘Senior.’  They’re just like brother and sister.  He’s an artist, they’ve been everywhere together.  And, Paul, they think Winton is delightful.  Mr. Dayre says the village street, with its great overhanging trees, and old-fashioned houses, is a picture in itself, particularly up at our end, with the church, all ivy-covered.  He means to paint the church sometime this summer.”

“It would make a pretty picture,” Pauline said thoughtfully.  “Hilary, I wonder—­”

“So do I,” Hilary said.  “Still, after all, one would like to see different places—­”

“And love only one,” Pauline added; she turned to her sister.  “You are better, aren’t you—­already?”

“I surely am.  Shirley’s promised to take me out on the lake soon.  She’s going to be friends with us, Paul—­really friends.  She says we must call her ‘Shirley,’ that she doesn’t like ‘Miss Dayre,’ she hears it so seldom.”

“I think it’s nice—­being called ‘Miss,’” Patience remarked, from where she had curled herself up in the hammock.  “I suppose she doesn’t want it, because she can have it—­I’d love to be called ‘Miss Shaw.’”

“Hilary,” Pauline said, “would you mind very much, if you couldn’t go away this summer?”

“It wouldn’t do much good if I did, would it?”

“The not minding would—­to mother and the rest of us—­”

“And if you knew what—­” Patience began excitedly.

“Don’t you want to go find Captain, Impatience?” Pauline asked hastily, and Patience, feeling that she had made a false move, went with most unusual meekness.

“Know what?” Hilary asked.

“I—­shouldn’t wonder, if the child had some sort of scheme on hand,” Pauline said, she hoped she wasn’t—­prevaricating; after all, Patience probably did have some scheme in her head—­she usually had.

“I haven’t thought much about going away the last day or so,” Hilary said.  “I suppose it’s the feeling better, and, then, the getting to know Shirley.”

“I’m glad of that.”  Pauline sat silent for some moments; she was watching a fat bumble bee buzzing in and out among the flowers in the garden.  It was always still, over here at the farm, but to-day, it seemed a different sort of stillness, as if bees and birds and flowers knew that it was Sunday afternoon.