"I'm ready, Momsie," she said brightly, turning toward Mrs.

Thatcher,--"why, Momsie! what's the matter? It's all right, dearie. I'm sure we'll be very, very happy. I'm ready to see Mr. Hamlen whenever you say. It's all right, dearie."

Mrs. Thatcher sat down wearily, and Merry slipped to the floor at her feet, looking wonderingly up into her strained face. Marian leaned forward impulsively and kissed her, resting her cheek against the girl's face.

"My darling!" she said in a low, tense voice. "I have made a horrible mistake!"

The spoken words started a flood of tears which until then Marian had been able to restrain. The full weight of the responsibility again rushed over her. She had dared to interfere in two lives which should have been allowed to find their own expression, she had dared to pit her human judgment against Nature. What would be the final outcome? With Merry, she could not believe it would result in anything more serious than a further confusion of ideals, but with Hamlen she knew well how disastrous the effect must be. How could she make matters clear to this dear child when her own brain was so bewildered!

But when the tears had relieved the tension, and Marian felt the sympathetic encouragement of the heart beating against her own, the mother love, as always, rose triumphant over mental and physical limitations. During the next hours, amid confidences and revelations which enabled each at last to understand the other, mother and daughter experienced that rare communion which had been denied them, but which was theirs by right. The sacrifice Merry had been ready to make accomplished its purpose without necessity of execution; the sincerity of her mother's purpose became clear, and the girl discovered the natural refuge where she might always find relief from overpowering perplexities. When they went down-stairs together, with arms around each other, and strolled out into the rose-garden, there was a new meaning to the sunlight and to the fragrance of the flowers. Marian saw in it a promise that her morning supplication might not have been in vain.

The telephone message from Huntington that Hamlen had been located and that all was well relieved Marian's apprehensions, and left her with such thankfulness and joy that she was able to join her remaining guests in the day's activities. How all could be well she was unable to comprehend, for the shock to Hamlen's nature must have been too great for easy convalescence; but at all events the worst had not happened, and until Huntington returned no further details could be obtained.

Merry, too, entered into the family life for the first time with any show of interest. Philip and Billy, who now alone remained of Philip's friends, annexed themselves in the absence of something better to do.

Billy was still disgruntled, but his malady seemed to be located in his head rather than in the region of his heart.

Activity was an absolute necessity to Marian, so she announced that instead of the usual dinner they would picnic on the sh.o.r.e at a spot perhaps two miles distant from Sagamore Hall. Not that this required physical exertion for her, but it was a novelty which would prove diverting. As the sun sank low, the little party boarded the electric launch.

"Excuse me for asking, Marian, but where does the picnic come in?" Edith demanded, noting the total absence of baskets and bottles and the other usual paraphernalia. "I don't want to criticise, but I'm no air-plant."

Marian laughed, "Have faith," she replied. "A relief train is even now on its way to save you from starvation."

"Too bad for Huntington and Hamlen to miss all this," Cosden remarked, hoping to call forth some word of explanation.

"If you vote it a success, we may repeat it after they return," she answered evasively. "Perhaps then we can include Harry."

"That reminds me," Edith broke in, looking vindictively toward Cosden.

"Perhaps you will tell me why Harry rushed down here like a lost soul and then back again to New York. Mr. Cosden is very mysterious about it, and my curiosity is aroused."

"There isn't any mystery," Marian a.s.sured her. "There were some papers he had forgotten to take."

"Why didn't he telephone me to bring them to him?" Philip demanded. "Why is it he won't let me go to the office, when he promised me I could help him as soon as college was over?"

Mrs. Thatcher looked at Cosden questioningly. "Is there anything more than Harry told me?" she asked him.

Cosden knew that Thatcher was still trying to keep his family in ignorance of the strain under which he was laboring. It was for him to give such details as he chose rather than for his guest.

"I don't know how much you already know, Mrs. Thatcher," he replied with apparent candor. "These are strenuous days in Wall Street, and no one can tell what is going to happen next. As for you, Philip, don't be impatient. This is no time to initiate a youngster into any business.

War is breaking loose in Europe, and if Germany and England lock horns there will be something doing."

"War!" Philip cried. "Do you really think there will be a war?"

"The idea!" Edith sniffed. "Those little savage tribes in the Balkans may call each other names and throw things around, but Germany and England are civilized nations. How perfectly absurd!"

"If there is a war, I want to get in it," Philip insisted. "I've always wanted to go to war, and never supposed I would have a chance."

"I'll go with you," announced Billy with sudden enthusiasm, looking significantly at Merry as he saw the solution of his troubles. "I don't care what side I'm on or against whom I fight. Let's enlist together, Phil."

"You couldn't fight except for your own country, you silly," Merry laughed.

"Of course I could," he insisted stoutly. "You never think I can do what I say I can, but I'll show you. I can be a soldier of fortune like Robert Clay, or I can be a Canadian and get shot up as much as I like."

"But this isn't in a story, Billy, and Robert Clay was. More than that, you're no Canadian."

"Anyhow I was in Canada once."

"Don't mind Billy," Phil interrupted. "I'm really serious. There must be some way I could get into it. You know, Mother, how much I've always wanted to."

"Yes, my boy; I do know," Mrs. Thatcher answered. "Ever since you were old enough to play with toys it has always been soldiers and wars. I have thanked G.o.d that war was a horror of the past, for I know how hard it would be to hold you back if the opportunity offered."

"If he goes, then I go with him," Billy said with decision.

"You both had better wait until war is declared by somebody against somebody else," Cosden suggested.

"You don't think they'll patch it up, do you?" Philip inquired anxiously.

"Let us hope so," Mrs. Thatcher answered; "but this is a pleasure expedition. Let us banish thoughts of war."

As the launch rounded a rocky promontory a roaring fire was disclosed burning on the beach, around which several of the house servants were already busied in preparing supper. Back from the beach, beneath great spreading oaks, a cloth was laid on the ground, to which the contents of the hampers were being transferred. The usual limitations of camp life were conspicuous by their absence, the fascinations were emphasized by the marvelous smoothness with which everything was conducted.

"I don't call this picnicking," Edith declared, after her first taste of chowder. "Plant a forest of trees in Sherry's ball-room, paint an ocean on the wall, fake a moon rising over the orchestra stage, everybody sit cross-legged on the floor,--and there you have it. Sherry certainly couldn't improve on the service or the food."

"I can't find even an ant on mine," Billy complained, corroborating Edith's praise.

"Champagne like this is far too good for the common people," added Cosden turning to Mrs. Thatcher. "How did you do it? It is the apotheosis of gipsy life, and makes me reluctant to return to civilization."

Billy edged around until he gained a seat next to Merry. "This feast might have been in honor of our marriage," he whispered. "It's all your fault that I'm going to war, and if I'm shot up I'll come back and haunt you."

"Don't, Billy!" Merry sputtered, laughing and choking,--"you'll make me swallow this the wrong way. There--" she continued as she recovered; "that's better. Now don't be silly or you'll spoil our fun. We are going to be good friends always, and that's all there is to it."

"You wait. You've been lots happier since I told you that you loved me, now haven't you? I know. You think it's a joke because you think I'm a joke, but when once I've gone to war you'll understand. I'll bet you even that you'll chase after me as a Red Cross nurse, and that I'll die with my head in your lap. Do you take me?"

Phil approached near enough to put an end to the proposition without Merry's reply.

"Do you suppose there's anything in this war talk?" he queried, sitting down beside them.

"Not a thing," his sister replied. "That would be too absurd."

"If there is, I could at least go as a correspondent,--that is, if Dad could spare me. I'm terribly keen about this."

"How could you work me in?" Billy demanded. "I couldn't do any newspaper stunt."

"How about taking pictures to ill.u.s.trate my articles?"

"Great! I can shoot a Kodak like anything. Then it's all settled that we go together?"

"Suppose there isn't any war?" Merry persisted in throwing cold water upon their plans.