"Such children!" smiled Margery. "Ted, you encourage them. They are more
barbarian than ever when you are here, and they are bad enough under
normal conditions."

Ted chuckled at that. He and his Aunt Margery were the best of good
friends. They always had been since Ted had refused to join her Round
Table on the grounds that he might have to be sorry for being bad if he
did, though he had subsequently capitulated, in view of the manifest
advantages accruing to membership in the order.

"That's right. Lay it to me. I don't believe Uncle Phil was a saint,
either, was he, Granny?" he appealed. "I'll bet the kids get some of
their deviltry by direct line of descent."

His grandmother smiled.

"We forget a good deal about our children's naughtinesses when they are
grown up," she said. "I've even forgotten some of yours, Teddy."

"Lucky," grinned her grandson, stooping to kiss her again. "_Allons,
enfants_."

Later, when the obstreperous ones were in bed and everything quiet Philip
and Margery sat together in the hammock, lovers still after eight years
of strenuous married life and discussed Larry's last letter, which had
contained the rather astonishing request that he be permitted to bring
the little lady who had forgotten her past to Holiday Hill with him.

"Queer proposition!" murmured the doctor. "Doesn't sound like
sober Larry."