hed, and took from her pocket a large sheet of letter paper,
looking meanwhile with half suffused eyes towards Madame.

"Do you remember, ma mere," she said tenderly, "how we used to sew and
plan together in those old days when we were so poor in money and so
rich in dreams?"

"Indeed I do, Joyce."

"And, one winter's day, when the house was so cold we had to huddle
close around the old wood stove and shiver, do you remember telling how
we would have our home if we could, and how perfectly it should be
warmed in winter and cooled in summer? We all got enthusiastic over it;
there were you and Dorette and I, while Camille lay fast asleep in her
cradle; and first one, then another, would propose some convenience,
until we forgot the cold entirely. Finally you cried gaily, 'Wait, I'll
draw a plan. These are good ideas for somebody, if not for us. Give me a
pencil and paper Joyce,' and presently you showed us what you had
drawn."

"Oh, yes! The pretty house with the dumb waiter going from cellar to
attic, and the soiled clothes dump from the upper floors to the laundry,
and the store-room down-stairs for trunks and heavy furniture, and--"

"And the long drawers under the deep window-seats for best gowns," broke
in Dorette with unusual excitement, "and the little cedar closet for
furs, and the elegant lighted closets. I remember the plan perfectly.
But that--is that it, Joyce?"

"This is the very self-same drawing," said the latter merrily.

"I had wondered what became of it, then forgot it entirely," laughed the
Madame. "So you have had it all the time?"

"Yes, I stole it. And, ma mere, the house is built. There are the very
little nooks, sunny and warm, that you planned in the library for
reading and writing; the pretty Dutch kitchen with its long low window,
and the central hall with its wide fireplace. They are all real now, not
a dream any more. And they are yours. You have only to take possession,
after giving a few orders to the decorators about colors, and so forth.
If you say so, Gilbert shall drive us out to-morrow. We can take Dodo,
and carry a luncheon to picnic by the wayside. It will be a lovely
outing. Won't we, everybody?"

But somehow words came tardily just then. Larry had caught Joyce's hand,
and was pumping it up and down somewhat wildly, while his lips quivered
under his mustache; Madame Bonnivel had a trembling grasp upon the other
hand, while Dorette and Camille were each kissing an ear, or an