"Oh, I know," said Win quickly. "It stands almost on the shore."
"That's it," said Connie. "I'll expect you then."
Win declared himself quite equal to helping with the decorations that afternoon. When they arrived, the beach dog lay in the porch, thumping his tail by way of welcome, so they knew his mistress was already within. For a few moments, the three lingered to look at the quaint French inscriptions on the churchyard stones, but finally entered rather shyly. They were not given one moment to feel themselves strangers.
"I'm delighted to see you," exclaimed Constance, coming down the aisle with a long vine trailing after. "So glad you came. Rose," she called to a pretty young girl working near by, "here are some helpers for your windows. Oh, you know Rose LeCroix, don't you? She goes to your school. Win," she added quickly, "won't you come and help struggle with this tiresome pulpit?"
Win followed at once, glad to see Max already busy over the designated task, but Constance sent him to seek a certain wire frame reputed to exist in the sacristy. Win found himself twining myrtle wreaths around the pillars of the stone pulpit, yet stealing constant glances at the interior of the old church.
Part of it was very ancient, with round Norman pillars and a rounded vault, speaking of very distant days. Everything save pews and choir stalls was of granite, its rosy color making the stone seem warm rather than cold. Vines, holly and flowers heaped about the interior emphasized by their ephemeral beauty the solemn enduring majesty of the church itself. Ten or twelve young people were working more or less steadily to the accompaniment of much gay conversation.
"Oh, Max, that's the wrong frame," Constance said suddenly.
Win turned to see her sorting lilies where she knelt on the chancel steps.
"This isn't Easter, ducky," she added. "We want a star, not a cross."
Max smiled at Win, an indulgent, rather amused smile, and when the proper frame had been substituted, came back to the pulpit.