Miss Greene hesitated and took the plunge. "I don't see her," she
remarked, still casually.

This time the boy raised his head and looked at her. There was in his
face the slight impatience of one who deals with an inferior
understanding.

"'Course you don't," he said, carelessly. "You can't. No one can't see
Lily Bell but 'cept me."

Miss Greene felt snubbed, but persevered.

"She doesn't seem to be playing very nicely to-day," she hazarded.

He gave her a worried look.

"She isn't," he conceded, "not very. 'Most always she's very, very
nice, but she's kind of cross to-day. I guess p'r'aps," he speculated,
frankly, "you're 'sturbing her by talking so much."

Miss Greene accepted the subtle hint and remained silent. From that
time, however, Raymond Mortimer counted on her acceptance of Lily Bell
as a recognized personality, and referred to her freely.

"Lily Bell wants us to go on a picnic to-morrow," he announced, one
day when he was six. "She says let's go on the island under the willow
an' have egg-san'wiches an' ginger-ale for lunch."

Miss Greene carried out the programme cheerfully, for the child made