To Arthur, half-way across the lake, considering just what he should say to the trespassers, the sudden sight of the person whom of all persons in the world he least expected and most wanted to see was a staggering physical shock. He almost fell out of his canoe. And if he had done that he might very likely have drowned, so paralyzing in effect were those first moments of unbelievable joy and astonishment. Then she waved her hand to him and swiftly crossed the beach, and he began to paddle like a madman. When the canoe beached with sudden finality, Arthur simply made a flying leap to the shore and caught her in his arms.

Then he held her at arm's length, and if eyes could eat, these would have been the last moments upon earth of a very lovely young woman.

Then a sort of horror of what he had done and of what he was doing seized him. His hands dropped to his sides and the pupils of his eyes became pointed with pain. But she said:

"It's all right, Arthur; don't look like that. My husband is dead."

"Dead?" said Arthur, his face once more joyous as an angel's. "Thank God for that!"

And why not thank God when some worthless, cruel man dies? And why not write the truth about him upon his tombstone instead of the conventional lies?

"But why didn't you write to me?" demanded Arthur.

"It had been such a long time since we saw each other. How did I know that you still cared?"

"But how could I stop caring—about you?"

"Couldn't you?"

"Why, I didn't even try," said Arthur. "I just gave it up as a bad job. But how, in the name of all that's good and blessed, do you happen to be in this particular place at this particular time? Did you, by any chance, come by way of the heavens in a 'sweet chariot'? I came to eject trespassers, and I find you!"

"And I came to spy on you, Arthur, and to find out if you still cared. And if you didn't, I was going to tie a stone round my neck and lie down in the lake. Of course, if I'm a trespasser——"

They had moved slowly away from the shore toward the tents. From one of these a languid, humorous voice that made Arthur start hailed them. And through the fly of the tent was thrust a beautiful white hand and the half of a beautiful white arm.

"I can't come out, Arthur," said the voice; "but good-morning to you, and how's the family?"

"Of all people in the world," exclaimed Arthur; "my own beautiful mamma!" And he sprang to the extended hand and clasped it and kissed it.

"Your excellent stepfather," said the voice, "is out walking up an appetite for breakfast. I hope you will be very polite to him. If it hadn't been for him, Cecily would have stayed in London, where we found her. He wormed her secret out of her and brought her to you as a peace-offering."

There was a deep emotion in Arthur's voice as he said:

"Then there shall always be peace between us."

The hand had been withdrawn from the light of day; but the languid, humorous voice continued to make sallies from the brown tent.

"We didn't want to be in the way; so, remembering this bit of property, we just chucked our Somali outfit into a ship, and here we are! I was dreadfully shocked and grieved to hear that you were all quite broke and had started an inn. In New York it is reported to be a great success, is it?"

"Why, I hope so," said Arthur; "I don't really know. Mary's head man. Maud keeps the books; the triplets keep getting into mischief, and Eve, so far as I know, keeps out. As for me, I had an occupation, but it's gone now."

"What was your job, Arthur?"

"My job was to have my arm in imagination where it now is in reality."

"Cecily!" exclaimed the voice. "Is that boy hugging you publicly? Am I absolutely without influence upon manners even among my own tents?"

"Absolutely, Princess!" laughed Cecily.

"Then the quicker I come out of my tent the better! You'll stop to breakfast, Arthur?"

"With pleasure, but shan't I get word to the girls? Of course, they would feel it their duty to call upon you at once."

"I should hope so—as an older woman I should expect that much of them. But, princess or no princess, I refuse to stand on ceremony. In my most exalted and aristocratic moments I can never forget that I am their mother. So after breakfast I shall call on them."

At this moment, very tall and thin, in gray Scotch tweeds, carrying a very high, foreheady head, there emerged from the forest Prince Oducalchi, leading by the hand his eight-year-old son, Andrea, and singing in a touching, clear baritone something in Italian to the effect that a certain "Mariana's roses were red and white, in the market-place by the clock-tower!"

Andrea wore a bright-red sweater, carried a fine twenty-bore gun made by a famous London smith, and looked every inch a prince. He had all the Darling beauty in his face and all the Oducalchi pride of place and fame.

"Mr. Darling, I believe?" asked the prince, his left eyebrow slightly acockbill. "I have not had the pleasure of seeing you for some years, but I perceive that you are by way of accepting my peace-offering."

"I was never just to you," said Arthur, a little pale and looking very proud and handsome, "and you have been very good to my mamma and you have been very good to me. Will you forgive me?"

"I cannot do that. There has been nothing to forgive. But I will shake hands with you with all the pleasure in the world—my dear Cecily, does he come up to the memories of him? Poor children, you have had a sad time of it in this merry world! I may call you 'Arthur'? Arthur, this is your half-brother, Andrea. I hope that you will take a little time to show him the beautiful ways of your North Woods."

Arthur shook hands solemnly with the small boy, and their stanchly met eyes told of an immediate mutual confidence and liking.

"I've always wanted a brother in the worst way," said Arthur.

"So have I," piped Andrea.

And then Princess Oducalchi came out of her tent, and proved that, although her daughters resembled her in features, simplicity, and grace and dignity of carriage, they would never really vie with her in beauty until they had loved much, suffered much, borne children into the world, and remembered all that was good in things and forgotten all that was evil.

"Mamma," said Arthur, "is worth travelling ten thousand miles to see any day, isn't she?"

"On foot," said Prince Oducalchi, "through forests and morasses infested with robbers and wild beasts."

The princess blushed and became very shy and a little confused for a few moments. Then, with a happy laugh, she thrust one hand through her husband's arm, the other through Arthur's, and urged them in the direction of the tent, where breakfast was to be served.

Andrea followed, with Cecily holding him tightly by the hand.

"If we had not been buried in Somaliland at the time," said Arthur's mother, "we would never have let this 'Inn' happen. I'm sure you were against it, Arthur?"

"Of course," said he simply. "But with sister Mary's mind made up, and the rest backing her, what could a poor broken-hearted young man do? And it has worked out better than I ever hoped. I don't mean in financial ways. I, mean, the sides of it that I thought would be humiliating and objectionable haven't been. Indeed, it's all been rather a lark, and Mary insists upon telling me that we are a lot better off than we were. We charge people the most outrageous prices! It's enough to make a dead man blush in the dark. And the only complaint we ever had about it was that the prices weren't high enough. So Mary raised them."

"But," objected Prince Oducalchi, "you, and especially your sisters, cannot go on being innkeepers forever. You, I understand, for instance"—and his fine eyes twinkled with mirth and kindness—"are thinking of getting married."

"I am," said Arthur, with so much conviction that even his Cecily laughed at him.

"When I divorced your poor father," said the princess, "he happened to be enjoying one of his terrifically rich moments. So, in lieu of alimony, he turned over a really huge sum of money to me. When I married Oducalchi and told him about the money, he made me put it in trust for you children, to be turned over to you after your father's death. So you see there was never any real need to start the Inn—but of course we were in Africa and so forth and so on— If you've finished your coffee, I'm dying to see the girls. And I'm dying to tell them about the money, and to send all the horrid guests packing!"

"Some of the horrid guests," said Arthur, "won't pack. Of course, the girls think that I only study frogs and plants; but it's a libel. When two and two are thrust into my hands, I put them together, just as really sensible people do. You will find, mamma, a sad state of affairs at the camp."

Princess Oducalchi began to bristle with interest and alarm.

"Andrea," said his father, "have a canoe put overboard for me."

Andrea rose at once and left the breakfast tent.

"Now, Arthur," cried the princess, "tell me everything at once!"

"Gay," said Arthur, "is in love with a young Englishman, and knows that she is. He had to go home to be made an earl; but I think she is expecting him back in a few days, because she is beginning to take an interest in the things she really likes. Mary is in love with Sam Langham, and he with her. They, however, don't know this. Phyllis has forsaken her garden and become a dead-game sport. This she has done for the sake of a red-headed Bostonian named Herring. Lee and a young fellow named Renier are neglecting other people for each other. And our sedate Maud, formerly very much in the company of two fiery Southerners, is now very much in the company of one of them, Colonel Meredith, of South Carolina. The other Carolinian, Mr. Bob Jonstone, sprained his wrist the other day, and it seems that sister Eve was intended by an all-wise Providence to be a trained nurse. But in the case of those last mentioned there are certain mysteries to be solved."

At this moment Andrea appeared at the tent opening and announced in his piping child voice: "The canoe is overboard, papa."