"I'm glad it happened here in this garden," she said contentedly. "I seem to feel more at home in this atmosphere. Benten shall be my patron saint from this day."

"Shall we spend our honeymoon in j.a.pan?" he asked. "Why not keep this setting to the end?"

She clapped her hands. "Splendid!" she cried. "That will be Paradise;--and you'll teach me all you know about everything?"

"Why not let your Hearn teach you of j.a.pan? He knows it all. He would tell you, too, that Benten is also G.o.ddess of the Sea," he pointed to the brilliant spot of color at the end of the avenue, now made spectacular by the radiance of the setting sun. "He would understand why, under this influence, I could not keep from telling you my secret; for 'is not the sea most ancient and most excellent of speakers,--the eternal poet, chanter of that mystic hymn whose rhythm shakes the world, whose mighty syllables no man may learn?'"

"Oh, Monty," she murmured, nestling closer to him in blissful happiness, "please go on. To hear you talk is just like listening to a beautiful symphony. And to think you're going to share it all with me! Let us stay right here forever!"

"Mer-ry!" came Philip's call across the lawn.

"Uncle Mon-ty!" Billy halloed.

"There come those horrid boys," she pouted, sitting up straight. "Why are boys, anyway?"

"You told me once that it was only when they became serious that you worried about them," he teased her.

"They are serious now,--they've found out you're here, and they're going to talk war with you.--I don't want to give you up even for a moment!"

"Nor I you," he whispered, as the boys were close at hand; "but we must keep our secret a little longer."

They rose and walked up the avenue to meet them.

"Mother said to wait because you were tired, but Billy couldn't, so I came with him," Philip explained lamely.

"I am never too tired to receive a welcome like this--"

"We want your advice," Billy interrupted.

"Won't it wait until we get to the house?"

"No," Billy insisted; "it's urgent. Phil and I want to go to the war, and if we don't hurry they may call it off and then we'll be rooked."

"I wish there was a chance they might," Huntington said feelingly.

"There's no fear of that, boy. They are in for a long and terrible struggle."

"Great!" cried Philip. "I've always wanted to go to war, and I never believed there would be another."

"I'm going because I want to get shot up just to spite Merry," added Billy, remembering his grievance and looking at the girl gloomily.

"The fact that you realize so little what you are saying is the greatest argument you could advance in favor of your going," Huntington said, looking at them gravely.

"I didn't mean to speak as I did," Philip replied apologetically. "It is a terrible thing, of course, but since it has come I am crazy to be a part of it. I believe I'll run away if Mother and Dad don't let me go!"

"I meant just what I said," Billy insisted stoutly. "Merry is very unhappy,--haven't you noticed it?"

"Do I look so now?" she laughed at him.

"You shouldn't interrupt," he reproved her; "it isn't polite.--She doesn't know what is the matter with her, but I do."

"What is the matter, Billy?" Huntington inquired seriously. "If I knew, perhaps I could help her."

"Of course you could; that's why I'm telling you. She's in love with me and she doesn't know it."

"By Jove!" Huntington exclaimed, looking at Merry's beaming face as she walked beside him, and then at the serious features of the boy on the other side. "I'm afraid I can't help, after all."

"Yes, you can," Billy insisted confidently. "Merry will believe anything you tell her. Now if I go to war and get shot up she will realize her destiny, and will come to the hospital over there somewhere and be a Red Cross nurse, and fix me all up. Then we'll be married,--unless my wound is fatal and I die," he added, gulping down the pathos which this painful picture stirred within himself.

"I can't stay with you, Billy, if you harrow up my feelings like this,"

Huntington declared. "It isn't fair to take advantage of your sympathetic old uncle."

"He's just talking in bunches, Mr. Huntington," Philip said disgustedly.

"You mustn't mind what he says. His mouth is full of mush all the time now. I'm sick of it!"

"How about my feelings, Billy?" Merry demanded. "Have you no pity for me?"

"Why should I?" he retorted. "It's all your fault.--Uncle Monty, wouldn't you like to have Merry in the family?"

"I certainly would," was the frank response spoken with a sincerity which gave the boy unbounded encouragement.

"Now you've said something!" Billy exclaimed and he turned to Merry with a gesture of finality! "I want you in the family, Uncle Monty wants you, Phil wants me for a brother-in-law--"

"I'm not so sure," Philip interrupted.

"Oh, yes, he does," Billy continued unabashed.--"So it's up to you. Will you make us all happy, or will you send me to meet my fate amid the horrors of war?"

"That'll be about all of that," Philip said, scowling. "We came out here to talk war and not nonsense. I won't stand for it!"

"We mustn't get these two great questions confused, Billy," Huntington said soothingly. "I have something to tell you later which may solve one of them, and we should approach the other with a calm and judicial mind.

I haven't any right to advise you, Philip, for your mother and father probably have definite ideas which must be respected; but if a way could be found for Billy to have some of the experiences over there without running too much danger, I should be inclined to throw my influence in favor of his going."

"Hurrah!" Billy cried.

"That is all I could possibly expect, Mr. Huntington," Philip acknowledged. "If Billy is allowed to go, I'm sure Mother and Dad will consent."

"Very good. I promise you to look into it carefully, and Billy will keep you posted as to the result."

"What's the other solution?" Billy asked suspiciously.

"I'll tell you later.--Now let me speak with the others. There is nothing more for us to talk about, is there?"

"I'm sorry I spoke so lightly about the war," Philip said, grasping Huntington's hand as they separated. "I have fighting in my blood somewhere, and I'm so excited over it all that I forget myself sometimes."

"War means to forget one's self at all times, my boy," Huntington answered kindly. "With all its savagery, with all its brutal return to primeval instincts, the sacrifices and the heroism it calls for enn.o.ble those who are drawn into its hideous vortex. No man can once feel this and ever again look upon life in a small way. That is why, under certain circ.u.mstances, I might favor Billy's desire."

"That is my second desire," Billy carefully explained; "my first is that Merry become a member of our family."

"To that," his uncle replied, "I have already given my unqualified approval."