"Then why?"
Courtney's face wore a queer smile. "We'll help grandma and Aunt Lal and Aunt Ann put up fruit and jam and preserves."
"Will we stay long?" inquired the boy anxiously.
"Until—until your father—gets back."
Winchie looked much downcast. "Why?" he asked.
"Why not?" said Courtney. "And now, you'll help me pack and I'll help you."
It was a busy day, as there were many things to arrange besides the packing. Gallatin did not appear at the house all day, and Courtney did not expect him. Toward ten that night the packing was finished and everything ready for an early departure. Courtney went downstairs and out across the moonlit lawn. Slowly, with gaze straight ahead, she strolled toward the lake, toward the summer house in the copse at the western edge of the grounds. She entered, curled herself up on the broad seat, her elbow upon the rail, her hand supporting her chin. She watched the moonlight in the ripples along the middle of the lake. From time to time, she lifted her head, strained her eyes into the encircling shadows, then resumed her attitude, mental as well as physical, of forlorn abstraction. Something less than half an hour, and when she lifted herself to glance round for the third or fourth time, she did not sink back, but slowly straightened, her breath coming quickly.
"Who's there?" she called softly, addressing the deep shadows over the path by which she had come.
No answer but the chorus of tiny creatures murmuring excitedly in every crevice and beneath every blade and leaf.
"Who is it?" she demanded, but not loudly or nervously. She stood up.