of Lily Bell's perversity. Once or twice she proposed a holiday.

"Couldn't we go off somewhere, just by ourselves, for a picnic," she
hazarded, one morning--"an' not ask Lily Bell?"

It was a bold suggestion, but the conduct of Miss Bell had been
especially reprehensible the day before, and even the dauntless spirit
of Margaret Hamilton was sore with the strife.

"Wouldn't you like a--a rest, too?" she added, insinuatingly.
Apparently the boy would, for without comment he made the preparations
for the day, and soon he and the child were seated side by side in the
boat in which the old gardener rowed them over to their beloved
island.

It was a perfect day. Nothing was said about Lily Bell, and her
presence threw no cloud on those hours of sunshine. Seated adoringly
by the boy's side, Margaret Hamilton became initiated into the
mysteries of bait and fishing, and the lad's respect for his companion
increased visibly when he discovered that she could not only bait his
hooks for him, but could string the fish, lay the festive board for
luncheon, and set it forth. This was a playmate worth while. Raymond
Mortimer, long a slave to the exactions of Lily Bell, for whom he had
thanklessly fetched and carried, relaxed easily into the comfort of
man's more congenial sphere, and permitted himself to be waited on by
woman.

In such and other ways the month of August passed. Margaret Hamilton,
like the happy-hearted child she was, sang through the summer days and
knitted more closely around her the hearts of her companions.