ed
his eyes. "If little boys dream things, they are so apt not to come
true," he reflected sadly. This shook even the redoubtable William, and
he glanced nervously at his brother. "But do things vanish just because
they have been dreamed?" he objected.

"Generally that is the very best reason for their vanishing," said
Arthur gravely.

"But, Father, people can't help what they dream," remonstrated Edward
gently.

"Oh, come! You're making these children talk like a Maeterlinck
dialogue," laughed Miss Broadwood.

Flavia presently entered, a book in her hand, and bade them all good
morning. "Come, little people, which story shall it be this morning?"
she asked winningly. Greatly excited, the children followed her into
the garden. "She does then, sometimes," murmured Imogen as they left the
breakfast room.

"Oh, yes, to be sure," said Miss Broadwood cheerfully. "She reads a
story to them every morning in the most picturesque part of the garden.
The mother of the Gracchi, you know. She does so long, she says, for the
time when they will be intellectual companions for her. What do you say
to a walk over the hills?"

As they left the house they met Frau Lichtenfeld and the bushy
Herr Schotte--the professor cut an astonishing figure in golf
stockings--returning from a walk and engaged in an animated conversation
on the tendencies of German fiction.

"Aren't they the most attractive little children," exclaimed Imogen as
they wound down the road toward the river.

"Yes, and you must not fail to tell Flavia that you think so. She will
look at you in a sort of startled way and say, 'Yes, aren't they?' and
maybe she will go off and hunt them up and have tea with them, to fully
appreciate them. She is awfully afraid of missing anything good, is
Flavia. The way those youngsters manage to conceal their guilty presence
in the House of Song is a wonder."

"But don't any of the artist-folk fancy children?" asked Imogen.

"Yes, they just fancy them and no more. The chemist remarked the other
day that children are like certain salts which need not be actualized
because the formulae are quite sufficient for practical purposes. I
don't see how even Flavia can endure to have that man about."

"I have always been rather curious to know what Arthur thinks of it
all," remarked Imogen cautiously.

"Thinks of it!" ejaculated Miss Broadwood. "Why, my dear, what would any
man think of having his house turned into an hotel, habited by