sounded far away, the sunlight blazed and danced, grannie’s voice was a pleasant murmur in my ear, the cockatoos screamed over the house and passed away to the west.  Summer is heavenly and life is a joy, I reiterated.  Joy!  Joy!  There was joy in the quit! quit! of the green-and-crimson parrots, which swung for a moment in the rose-bush over the gate, and then whizzed on into the summer day.  There was joy in the gleam of the sun and in the hum of the bees, and it throbbed in my heart.  Joy!  Joy!  A jackass laughed his joy as he perched on the telegraph wire out in the road. joy! joy!  Summer is a dream of delight and life is a joy, I said in my heart.  I was repeating the one thing over and over—­but ah! it was a measure of happiness which allowed of much repetition.  The cool murmur of the creek grew far away, I felt my poetry books slip off my knees and fall to the floor, but I was too content to bother about them—­too happy to need their consolation, which I had previously so often and so hungrily sought.  Youth!  Joy!  Warmth!

The clack of the garden gate, as it swung to, awoke me from a pleasant sleep.  Grannie had left the veranda, and on the table where she had been writing aunt Helen was filling many vases with maidenhair fern and La France roses.  A pleasant clatter from the dining-room announced that my birthday tea was in active preparation.  The position of the yellow sunbeams at the far end of the wide veranda told that the dense shadows were lengthening, and that the last of the afternoon was wheeling westward.  Taking this in, in an instant I straightened the piece of mosquito-netting, which, to protect me from the flies, someone—­auntie probably—­had spread across my face, and feigned to be yet asleep.  By the footsteps which sounded on the stoned garden walk, I knew that Harold Beecham was one of the individuals approaching.

“How do you do, Mrs Bell?  Allow me to introduce my friend, Archie Goodchum.  Mrs Bell, Mr Goodchum.  Hasn’t it been a roaster today?  Considerably over 100 degrees in the shade.  Terribly hot!”

Aunt Helen acknowledged the introduction, and seated her guests, saying: 

“Harry, have you got an artistic eye?  If so, you can assist me with these flowers.  So might Mr Goodchum, if he feels disposed.”

Harold accepted the proposal, and remarked: 

“What is the matter with your niece?  It is the first time I ever saw her quiet.”

“Yes; she is a noisy little article—­a perfect whirlwind in the house—­but she is a little tired this afternoon; she has been seeing those sheep through today.”

“Don’t you think it would be a good lark if I get something and tickle her?” said Goodchum.

“Yes, do,” said Harold; “but look out for squalls.  She is a great little fizzer.”

“Then she might be insulted.”

“Not she,” interposed auntie.  “No one will enjoy the fun more than herself.”

I had my eyes half open beneath the net, so saw him cautiously approach with a rose-stem between his fingers.  Being extremely sensitive to tickling, so soon as touched under the ear I took a flying leap from the chair somewhat disconcerting my tormentor.