Then he came to a little summer-house built all of porcupine quills like Helen's pen-box.
And then he knew.

All these wonders were on the island that he and Helen had invented long ago--the island that she used to draw maps of.
'It's our very own island,' he said, and a glorious feeling of being at home glowed through him, warm and delightful.

'We said no one else might come here! That's why the Pretenderette couldn't land.

And why they call it the Island-where-you-mayn't-go.

I'll find the bun tree and have something to eat, and then I'll go to the boat-house and get out the _Lightning Loose_ and go back for Lucy.