won't!"

Then they talked of cave-dwellers, and of the pleasant warmth of an
open-air fire on an August day, and of marvellous things they would do
during the coming weeks. And the absorption of their conversation was
such that when the faithful Thomas, having rowed after them,
stealthily approached and smote the boy upon the back, they yelled in
startled unison.

That no rancor lingered in the mind of Raymond Mortimer toward the
too-demonstrative Margaret Hamilton was proved by the careless remark
he made to his father when, some days later, that gentleman uttered a
jocund inquiry as to the health of Lily Bell.

His son stared at him for an instant, as one who seeks to recall the
snows of yester-year.

"Oh," he said, at last, "I haven't seen her for a long time. She
doesn't come round now."

Then, as his father grinned widely over these melancholy tidings, the
son flushed crimson.

"Well, I don't care," he said, hotly. "It's all your fault. Didn't you
tell me I had to 'muse Margaret? Didn't you? Well--I am. I ain't got
time for two. An', anyhow," he concluded, with Adamitic instinct,
"Lily Bell stopped coming herself!"

The exorcism of Lily Bell was complete. Unlike more substantial Lily
Bells of larger growth, she had known how to make her disappearance