Mrs. Burgoyne’s method of entertaining the children was simple.  She always made them work as hard as possible.  One day they begged her to let them build a “truly dam” that would really stop the Lobos in its placid course.  She consulted gravely with George Carew:  should they attempt it?  George, after serious consideration, thought they should.

As a result, twenty children panted and toiled through a warm Saturday afternoon, George and the Adams boys shouting directions as they handled planks and stones; everybody wet, happy, and excited.  Not the least glorious moment was when the dam was broken at five o’clock, just before refreshments were served.

“We’ll do that better next Saturday,” said George.  But a week later they wanted to clean the barn and organize a club.  Mrs. Burgoyne was sure they couldn’t.  All that space, she said, and those bins, and the little rooms, and all?  Very well, then, they could try.  Later they longed for a picnic supper in the woods, with an open fire, and potatoes, and singing.  Their hostess was dubious:  entreated them to consider the work involved, dragging stones for the fire, and carrying potatoes and bacon and jam and all the rest of it ’way up there’.  This was at two o’clock, and at six she was formally asked to come up and inspect the cleared camping ground, and the fireplace with its broilers, and the mammoth stack of fuel prepared.

“I knew you’d do it!” said the lady delightedly.  “Now we’ll really have a fine supper!” And a memorable supper they had, and Indian stories, and singing, and they went home well after dusk, to end the day perfectly.

“They like this sort of thing much better than white dresses, and a professional entertainer, and dancing, and too much ice-cream,” said Mrs. Burgoyne to Mrs. Adams.

“Of course they do,” said Mrs. Adams, who had her own reasons for turning rather red and speaking somewhat faintly.  “And it’s much less work, and much less expense,” she added.

“Now it is, when they can be out-of-doors,” said Mrs. Burgoyne; “but in winter they do make awful work indoors.  However, there is tramping for dry weather, and I mean to have a stove set up in the old billiard-room down-stairs and turn them all loose in there when it’s wet.  Theatricals, and pasting things, and singing, and now and then candy-making, is all fun.  And one knows that they’re safe, and piling up happy memories of their home.”

“You make a sort of profession of motherhood,” said Mrs. White dryly.

“It is my profession,” said the hostess, with her happy laugh.

But her happiness had a sudden check in mid-August; Sidney found herself no more immune from heartache than any other woman, no more philosophical over a hurt.  It was, she told herself, only a trifle, after all.  She was absurd to let it cloud the bright day for her and keep her restless and wakeful at night.  It was nothing.  Only—­