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“Everything—ducky! Including the last straw!” Pemrose was toying with her ring. “The rolls of colored paper for our flower costumes, the Wild Flower Pageant—your birthday, in August!” she murmured dreamily, really thinking of those radio “fiends” who might, at the moment, be handling their last few messages before broad daylight—on whom she might steal in. “We ought to have sent them up with the camp stores and extra clothing to the horse-farm—those rolls. When it comes to the last long mile—”

“Pshaw! they don’t weigh any more than two pinheads,” laughed Una, swaying like “white weed”, herself, her dark eyes, like her flowers, “dressing themselves up in gold light.” “And the farmers’ wives, their little children, they have so little in their lives!”

“Um-m. There may be very few ‘natives’ to admire us,” Pemrose was still showing off the ring to the sunrise, “unless—unless you include quack-natives,” merrily, “Treff and his father, who have a camp about ten miles from the horse-farm.”

“Poor Treff!” She dimpled. “Didn’t we have a time teasing him into getting well after his awful note? I believe if the world came to an end to-morrow that boy would call it a ‘note’.... But I like a boy who has a brown speck in one gray eye, just one—his fun-mill!”