even make me go when you sent me--I
preferred malarial fever."

Francis said nothing to that, except to suddenly tighten his arms about
her. He was not yet at the point where he could make a joke of her
illness. She had been too near the Valley of the Shadow for that.

So they were still sitting very comfortably together, discussing their
mutual life--they had planned as far as the tenth year of their
marriage--when Peggy descended upon them again.

Marjorie flushed and made a faint effort to escape, but Francis sat
immovably, exactly as if Peggy were not there at all.

"Oh!" said Peggy.

"We've made up," said Francis coolly.

"Then I suppose you won't be wanting me on the premises," said Peggy,
making a dive for the door.

"I would be delighted if there was a whole procession of you, like a
frieze," said Francis, "walking by and seeing how happy I am."

"Oh, but I wouldn't!" protested Marjorie. "Do let me get up and be
respectable, Francis. There _will_ be a procession going by
presently--you know the men all come and ask how I am every day."

At that reluctantly he did put her back in her chair, where she lay for
a little longer, starry-eyed and quite unlike an invalid. Peggy went
inside, judging that in spite of Francis's protests they would be
perfectly happy alone; and, besides, she wanted to tell her mother.
The two on the veranda stayed where they were.

"But what about the cooking?" demanded Marjorie presently.

"It's been all right while you were sick. We are going to get through
sooner than I thought."

"Oh, I'm so glad," she sighed. "I really did want you to get the work
done, and succeed--I never hated you that much, at the worst."

"Don't talk about the work!" he said passionately. "The work didn't
matter a bit. And I tell you this, Marjorie, if I can help it you
shall never do another stroke of work as long as you live!"

"That's going too far, as usual," said Marjorie calmly. "You certainly
are a tempestuous person, Francis Ellison! I'd be unhappy without
something to do. . . . May I play on the banjo sometimes in the
evening, and will you stay quite close to me when I do?"

"You mean----" he asked.

"I mean that you didn't destroy all those notes when you lost your
temper with me. To begin with, you left note-shaped places in the
dust, on all the things you had put there for me--you really will have
to let me do a little dusting occasionally, dear!--and so I hunted.
One