'Good-bye, good-bye!' said everybody.
'I wish the Lightning Loose was not lost,' Philip even at this parting moment remembered to say.
'She isn't,' said Mr. Noah. 'She flew back to the island directly you left her. Sails are called wings, are they not? White wings that never grow weary, you know. Relieved of your weight, the faithful yacht flew home like any pigeon.'
'Hooray!' said Philip. 'I couldn't bear to think of her rotting away in a cavern.'
'I wish Max and Brenda had come to say good-bye,' said Lucy.
'It is not needed,' said Mr. Noah mysteriously. And then everybody said good-bye again, and Mr. Noah rolled up his yellow mat, put it under his arm again, and went—for ever.
The children built the Grange, and when the beautiful little model of that house was there before them, perfect, they stood still a moment, looking at it.
'I wish we could be two people each,' said Lucy, 'and one of each of us go home and one of each of us stay here. Oh!' she cried suddenly, and snatched at Philip's arm. For a slight strange giddiness had suddenly caught her. Philip too swayed a little uncertainly and stood a moment with his hand to his head. The children gazed about them bewildered and still a little giddy. The room was gone, the model of the Grange was gone. Over their heads was blue sky, under their feet was green grass, and in front stood the Grange itself, with its front door wide open and on the steps Helen and Mr. Peter Graham.
That telegram had brought them home.
. . . . . .