The cousins stood in the drive and looked up at the house where Irene Howard English had lived with her mother for the past year. Their parents remembered it as a rather pretentious abode, but now the boys and girls who saw it only though it looked a little sad and shabby. The paint on the white scrollwork round the eaves was flaking and the panes of a few bay windows were bubbling down toward the bottom. The roof was mossy and sagged in places. Sally realized for the first time that Irene must be—well—she must be rather poor. Her pretty clothes were all that remained of her old life with her affluent first husband. And yet Irene had never mentioned it! Her pride would not allow her to, and so she put a brave face on it all.

The cousins had their second shock when Irene opened the door for them. She was dressed in a faded gingham dress, such as the type that Beulah Crawford wore when she came to the house to clean every other week. Her hair hung loose and golden-curly around her shoulders, and her face was free of all traces of makeup.

She let the children in without seeming to notice them, and then disappeared into the kitchen, with a murmur about refreshments, so they were free to stare at the bare furnishings without fear of being rude. There was a threadbare sofa and matching loveseat, of the same wear, the worn places hidden with old fashioned anti-macassars. But the drapes were clean and pretty and cheerful, if obviously homemade, and the piano that stood in the corner was burnished to a lovely gloss, sheet music on the stand, and a bowl of silvery blue hydrangea placed lovingly on top of the case. This was obviously where Irene spend most of her time. Claire Meredith shuffled nosily through the music, finding many songs of the first war years—the time when Irene was a girl their own age. Keep the Homefires Burning, Till We Meet Again, Someday Sweetheart. Songs of love and longing, and Sally felt her throat constrict with sadness for the pretty woman who sat and sang those songs. She was willing to bet that Irene had not sang much at all in the past two days.

Irene came in with a pitcher of lemonade and a tray of glasses and Claire pulled her hand away from the music as though she'd been caught with it in a cookie jar. Irene sat, spreading her skirt around her trim legs as she did. There was no doubt that she had style—Irene in gingham print was the same as any other woman in silk chiffon.

"It was nice of you to come and check up on me," she said, mechanically, and a little dully. "But there is really no need. I—know—you want to apologize for what you think you've done to wrong me. But you needn't. Things only didn't work out, is all, and Shirley will be better off without me. And—I with him. Oil and water, you know."

She tried to laugh, and the children did not know what to do about it. They shuffled their feet uncomfortably. Only Cam placed his big paw over Irene's small one.

"You don't mean that," he said, gently. "You put on a brave face, but you don't really feel it."

For the first time a ghost of a smile touched Irene's lips. "My father used to say I'd never win any prizes for acting. I never was good at pretending. It got me in trouble in the old days. I said what was on my mind baldly and bluntly, and more often than not it came out wrong. The only time I could hold myself back was when I was playing the coquette. The boys liked me for it—the girls didn't. And I was stupid enough to think that if I had boy-friends I wouldn't need the girls. Once I realized my mistake it scared me—and I tried to go back, and be familiar and friendly with the girls I'd slighted. But there is such a thing as being overly-familiar—and nobody liked that, much."

Irene dropped her gaze to her hands, clasped in her lap. The sight of those long, bare fingers—the absence of Uncle Shirley's ring—made them seem strange, and foreign, even to her. She wound them about her knees, and moved her gaze away.

"How is Shirley?" she asked softly, and the Blythe boys and girls saw that all walls between them—barriers of age, situation, and acquaintance—had fallen away. They could talk honestly with Irene, and she with them. But nobody knew just what to say to fill the silence that followed.

"He is brokenhearted," said Helen, softly, venturing forward timidly toward Irene. Her face was burning at the thought of the part she had played in their undoing. The whole story had been explained to her, and her mistake, and Helen had wept for many long hours over it. The tears showed plainly in her face, still—her eyes were pink, her nose was pink, and she looked more like a frightened rabbit than ever as she edged toward the woman she had once called 'aunt.' Suppose Irene should—yell—at her? But Irene only caught Helen's thin little hand, and held it briefly to her lips. Her brown eyes flashed love—real love, for the first time—and dawn broke over Helen's face. It was a kind thing for Irene to do—to relieve the tender little heart of some of its burden of suffering.

"I suppose you darlings have come to ask me to go back to him?" she wondered, of the rest, still holding Helen's hand. "You needn't bother. There are some people in the world who—who—who just don't mix. I always had a feeling that Shirley might be too good to be true."

"He isn't!" cried Claire, her latent temper flaring. "He's just as good as he seems!"

"I didn't mean it in a bad way," said Irene understandingly. "Not as you hear in the pictures, of a man pretending to be better than he is. I meant that he is too good to be…for me."

Sally knew the time was upon her. She stood. "Aunt Irene," she said, and for the first time the words came easily and naturally to her lips. "The reason we came today is to read you the latest chapter in my epic. I worked so hard on it—won't you hear it out?"

"Certainly," said Irene, nicely, but a little vaguely, as though she were slipping a little away from him. Sally squared her shoulders and thought that she must bring her back. Well—if Harry Golden was right—and if Sally had one ounce of the writer in her soul at all—she would be able to do it! Was she good enough? Her heart beat in her throat as she formed the words aloud.

"The title is 'A Confession,' Sally read out, giving the signal to Amy and Selwyn Ford, who sidled to the door and slipped out of it. She cleared her throat and began.

Once upon a time, there was a very handsome man. Some people might think that he was handsome because he was their son, or brother, and they loved him. Some people also might think he was good and kind, and everybody knows that handsome is as handsome does.

This man was handsome inside and out, and his name was Shirley Blythe. He was a flying ace of the Great War. After the war he returned home and started the Four Winds Flight School and was celebrated all over the island for training some of the best pilots in the country. Shirley Blythe also ran pleasure tours, and for a small fee he took people up to see the red roads and the neat fields of Prince Edward Island by the air. He was very successful and he grew to be very rich, buying for himself the old Bailey house near Rainbow Valley, and renovating it to suit his bachelor tastes exactly. He filled it with all sorts of modern furniture, and built a garage for the all the cars he liked to drive, too fast, some said, around the Glen. The house had come with a pantry, but it was always empty, because Shirley never learned to cook. Susan Baker made supper for him every night, and sent one of the children up through Rainbow Valley to deliver it. When Susan died, everybody said that Shirley would have to get a wife—or else starve.

Shirley had vowed never to marry, but all the same, he did not starve. He bought a cookbook, and worked his way through the first few chapters, learning to make fish and the kind of stew that old Norman Douglas would have called 'macanacaddy.' But then, before he could move on to roasts, Shirley Blythe met a woman.

She was one of the tourists whom he took up in his plane; she was from the Island but had been away from it for a long while, and she wanted a glimpse of the place she had loved so much as a girl. Shirley thought she looked very pretty—and she was, inside and out. As they were up in the air, he smiled at all of her oohs and ahs. When they were back on firm ground, he made a point to stop and ask her how she had liked the experience. "Oh, I loved it, Shirley," she said, familiarly, and he was puzzled, for he had not thought he knew her. The thought came to him that he wanted very badly to know this elegant woman with the smile that came to her lips so easily, and the graceful manner.

"Allow me to re-make your acquaintance," she said, offering her hand with a warm smile. "I'm Irene English."

But Shirley Blythe had used to know her as Irene Howard.

Shirley proposed to Irene, and he was so excited to introduce her to his family, who had long wanted him to be married. But the Blythes were a tight-knit clan, and they only remembered Irene from her girlhood, when she, like any other young person, was still learning how to show other people the truth of what she felt in her heart. Norman Douglas has another saying, and one of them is that 'Elephants have long memories—but so do the Blythes of Glen St. Mary.'

And the Blythes of Glen St. Mary did not give Irene English a fair chance.

They were never outright rude to her—at least, not the grownups. They had too many manners for that. But they never quite made all the effort they could to let her in. There are so many of them, you see, and they had grown quite used to relying on others instead of 'outsiders.' Even though Irene was pretty and kind and fun, they closed their circle to her—out of habit, not out of meanness.

But Shirley's nieces and nephews acted a bit more purposefully. They were afraid that if Irene married their uncle, they would lose him, somehow. And they loved him too much for that. They told themselves that they only were acting in their uncle Shirley's best interest, but really, they were being a little selfish. And as things sometime happen, they snowballed out of control. They listened to rumor and innuendo, and not their own hearts.

And so the wedding between Shirley Blythe and Irene English was called off, which you would think would make them happy, but it didn't. Uncle Shirley was sad, and they hated to see him so. And they missed Irene—her bright colors, and the spice she brought to things.

Uncle Shirley went back to Caraway House, which was still a bachelor pad, and everyone knew it that it always would be, after that. Because once a man like Uncle Shirley has given his heart to someone else to keep, he never asks for it back. It is gone for good. And Shirley's nieces and nephews realized they had made a huge mistake. They would rather see less of their uncle, and see him happy, than to have all of him, so full of sorrow.

So they decided to go to Irene English, and ask her to change her mind about him. If she will marry him, he will have her, for he loves her, and always will. And everyone—child and adult—has learned a lesson about love in general, and how to give it—and how to give it to uncle Shirley's bride, in particular, for she is worthy of it, and besides—she already has it.

Here Sally ended, and folded her papers with trembling hands. She was too full of emotion to speak. As she had read, she had stolen little glances at Irene and was moved by the emotions that played over her face. A silence went on and on, and nobody spoke. Finally, Walt did.

"Only you can write the end to Sally's story, Aunt Irene," he said seriously. "Will it be a happy ending—or a sad one?"

Irene had one slim white hand at her throat. "Does he really—and would he really—oh! Do you think he wants to marry me, still?"

"Athk him yourthelf," piped up a voice, and everyone turned to the doorway, where the Ford twins stood with Uncle Shirley. They had run as fast as their legs would carry them up to Caraway House the moment that Sally had begun to read, and their faces showed the exertion of their trip. Uncle Shirley had been annoyed to be pulled away from his breakfast—but now his face was softly aglow, for the first time in days, a love-light burning away down deep in his dark eyes.

He crossed the room to Irene and shocked the children by kneeling before her, and resting his head in her lap. The cousins had never seen a display of love so fervent—not from their parents—not even from their grandparents, who were the embodiment of years worth of romantic feeling. Uncle Shirley looked exactly like a knight in a storybook, paying fealty to his queen. Even Bess Golden would have been shaken by the image that he made. Sally nearly flew to pieces to think that her writing had had a part in making it happen.

They all held their breath as Irene's hand came tentatively up. Would she say no? Would she tell Shirley to go away? Her hand hovered a moment, and then—then!—it rested gently on Uncle Shirley's dark hair. "Oh, Shirley," Irene breathed with a sob of relief in her voice, and Uncle Shirley lifted his face and the cousins made for the door as fast as their legs would carry them. They were still learning things about life all the time but they knew, already, when to cut and run.

By suppertime the wedding that never happened was back on.