"I'm glad of that." Pauline sat silent for some moments; she was watching a fat bumble bee buzzing in and out among the flowers in the garden. It was always still, over here at the farm, but to-day, it seemed a different sort of stillness, as if bees and birds and flowers knew that it was Sunday afternoon.
"Paul," Hilary asked suddenly, "what are you smiling to yourself about?"
"Was I smiling? I didn't know it. I guess because it is so nice and peaceful here and because—Hilary, let's start a club—the 'S. W. F. Club.'"
"The what?"
"The 'S. W. F. Club.' No, I shan't tell you what the letters stand for! You've got to think it out for yourself."
"A real club, Paul?"
"Indeed, yes."
"Who's to belong?"
"Oh, lots of folks. Josie and Tom, and you and I—and I think, maybe, mother and father."
"Father! To belong to a club!"