“Yes, I’ll take that part, if you want me to,” she said, and Mr. Cromer said he would design her costume that afternoon.

“Hello, Apple Blossom!” called a big, round voice, and Bill Farnsworth came strolling along the terrace.  Perched on his shoulder was Baby May, her tiny hands grasping his thick, wavy hair, and her tiny feet kicking, as she squealed in glee.

“Misser Bill my horsie,” she announced.  “Me go ridy-by.”

“Is there something on my shoulder?” asked Bill, seemingly unconscious of his burden.  “I thought a piece of thistledown lighted there, but it may have blown off.”

“There is a bit of thistledown there,” said Patty, “but don’t brush it off.  It’s rather becoming to you.”

“Indeed it is,” agreed Cromer.  “I’d like to sketch you and that mite of humanity together.”

“You’re ready to sketch anybody that comes along, seems to me,” observed Bill.  “Isn’t this Miss Fairfield’s turn?”

“I expect she’s about tired of holding her pose,” said the artist.  “I’ll give her a rest, and make a lightning sketch of you two.  Baby’s mother may like to have it.”

“Oh, give it to me!” begged Patty.  “I’d love to have a picture of Baby May.”

“But there’ll be so much more of me in it than Baby May,” said Bill, gravely.

“Never mind,” laughed Patty.  “I shan’t object to your presence there.  Now, I’ll run away while you pose, for I might make you laugh at the wrong time.”

“Don’t go,” pleaded Bill, but Patty had already gone.

“What a beautiful thing she is,” said Cromer, as he worked away at his sketch-block.  He spoke quite as if referring to some inanimate object, for he looked at Patty only with an artist’s eye.

“She is,” agreed Bill.  “She’s all of that, and then some.  She’ll make a perfect Spirit of the Sea.  I say, Cromer, help me rig up my Neptune togs, will you?”

“Of course I will, old chap.  But Miss Fairfield isn’t going to be on your float.  She’s agreed to be my Maid of the Mist.”

“She has!  I say, Cromer, that’s too bad of you!  How did you persuade her to change her plan?”

“She didn’t change.  She had no idea of being on your float.  She asked me what I thought she’d better be, and she said all the most desirable parts were already assigned.”

“H’m, quite so!  Oh, of course,—­certainly!  Yes, yes, indeed!”

“What’s the matter with you, Bill?  Are you raving?  Your speech is a bit incoherent.”

“Incoherent, is it?  Lucky for you!  If I were coherent, or said what I’m thinking, you’d be some surprised!  You go on making your pencil marks while I think this thing out.  All right, Baby; did Uncle Bill joggle you too much?  There,—­now you’re comfy again, aren’t you?  I say, Laurence, I’ll have my picture taken some other day.  Excuse me now, won’t you?  I have a few small fish to fry.  Come, Babykins, let’s go find mummy.”