"She says she doesn't like it, either," the boy confided to his father
with an admiring sigh. "She never would go with me, you know. My!"--
this with a heavier sigh--"I'm 'fraid if I do all the things you an'
Lily Bell want me to I'll be awful good!"

His father sought to reassure him on this point, but he himself was
beginning to cherish a lurking fear of a different character. Was
longer continuance of this dream companionship really wise? So far, if
it had influenced the boy at all, it had been for good. But he was
growing older; he was almost eleven. Was it not time that this
imaginary child friend should be eliminated in favor of--of what? The
father's mind came up against the question and recoiled, blankly. Not
exercise, not outdoor pursuits, not pets, for Raymond Mortimer had all
these and more. His little girl friend had not made him a milksop. He
was an active, energetic, live, healthy-minded boy, with all a boy's
normal interests. When he built kennels for his dogs and made hutches
for his rabbits, Lily Bell stood by, it is true, but her friendly
supervision but added to the vigor and excellence of his work. Indeed,
Lily, despite her pantalettes, seemed to have a sporty vein in her.
Still, the father reflected uneasily, it could lead to no good--this
continued abnormal development of the imagination. For Lily Bell was
as real to the boy at ten as she had been at six.

What could be done? With what entering wedge could one begin to
dislodge this persistent presence? If one sent the boy away, Lily
Bell, of course, would go, too. If one brought--if--one--brought--

Mr. Prescott jumped to his feet and slapped his knee with enthusiasm.
He had solved his problem, and the solution was exceedingly simple.