singularly few requests. Thomas, the gardener, was to row them over,
and Miss Greene, a stout person who moved with difficulty, seated
herself in the stem of the boat with a sigh of relief, and drew
Raymond Mortimer down beside her. He wriggled out of her grasp and
struggled to his feet, his stout legs apart, his brown eyes
determined.

"You can't sit there, please, Miss Greene," he said, almost austerely.
"Lily Bell wants to sit there with me. You can take the other seat."

For once the good-natured Miss Greene rebelled.

"I'll do no such thing," she announced, firmly, "flopping round and
upsetting the boat and perhaps drowning us all. You and your Lily Bell
can sit together in the middle and let me be."

An expression of hope flitted across the child's face. "Will that do,
Lily Bell?" he asked, eagerly. The reply was evidently unfavorable,
for his jaw fell and he flushed. "She says it won't," he announced,
miserably. "I'm awful sorry, Miss Greene, but we'll have to 'sturb
you."

If Miss Lily Bell had been in the habit of making such demands, the
housekeeper would have continued to rebel. As it was, she had grave
doubts of the wisdom of establishing such a dangerous precedent as
compliance with the absurd request. But Raymond Mortimer's distress
was so genuine, and the pleasure of the picnic so obviously rested on
her surrender, that she made it, albeit slowly and with groans and
dismal predictions. The boy's face beamed as he thanked her.