"Why, I think the Merryweathers seem very nice boys indeed. I like the funny one best, I think; Gerald, is his name? But the other one is nice, too. He has such kind eyes, and such a pleasant voice. Somehow he looks more like Gertrude than Gerald does, even though Gerald has her hair. Oh, Jean, I wish you could see my Snowy Owl! She is so dear, and beautiful, and strong; next to you and Margaret, she is the very dearest girl in the world, except one."

"May I come in?" said Margaret's voice at the door. She was greeted by a duet of "Come in, do!" and entering, found her two cousins seated on the floor, hair-brush in hand, brushing out their long fair hair.

"'Maud and Madge in their robes of white, The prettiest nightgowns under the sun!'"

quoted Margaret. "How comfortable you look, girls! May I do my hair here, too? I knew you would be sitting up, chattering. Who is the very dearest girl in the world except one, Peggy? And who is the one? I heard the end of your sentence before I knocked."

"Yes, but you didn't hear the beginning," said Peggy, "or you would know that you two here are the very dearest, and that the others only come after you. I was speaking of Gertrude Merryweather; oh! how you and she will love each other, Margaret! I don't see how I can wait to have you know each other. And by the 'except one,' I meant Grace Wolfe, our Horny Owl, and our Goat, and a good many other things."

"Where is she now?" asked Margaret. "Have you heard from her lately?"

"No," said Peggy, sadly. "None of us have heard at school. She wrote Miss Russell some time ago that she was going to try a new departure, and expected either to go mad or make her fortune; but she didn't say what it was. She never writes many letters, you know. We have all written again and again, but it makes no difference. Hark! what is that noise?"

"What noise? I heard nothing," said Margaret.

"I thought I heard some one speak, outside the window."

They listened for a moment, but all was quiet.

"It may have been Uncle John and Hugh in the garden," said Margaret. "It is early yet, you know, not ten o'clock; they often walk about for an hour and more after we come up. Speaking of Grace Wolfe, Peggy,—"

"Tu-whit!" said a voice. "In this connection only, I may be permitted to remark, tu-whoo!"

"Grace!" cried Peggy, in such a voice that the other girls sprang to their feet. Peggy was at the window before them, snatching back the curtain. The night was warm, and the upper sash had been lowered completely. Leaning over the sash was a slender figure shimmering white in the moonlight. "Any admittance for the Goat?" said a deep, melodious voice. "Peace, Innocent!" for Peggy was trying to drag her in over the sash by main force.

"I address the mistress of the dwelling. Is there admittance for a miscellaneous quadruped, Margaret Montfort?"

But now Margaret had her other hand, and laughing and crying, the girls had her in, and again Peggy displayed the powerful development of her muscles in a strangling embrace, from which Grace emerged panting, but unruffled. Giving Peggy a sedate kiss, she turned to Margaret, who still held her hand, gazing in wonder and bewilderment; for this was Mrs. Peyton's companion.

"You pardon the informality?" she said; and her smile was like light in the room. "I could not come to call on Peggy, or on Peggy's Margaret, with my bonnet on. And it is a great wall to climb!" she added, wistfully. "I don't know when I have enjoyed myself so; there is little climbing in these sad days. Now you see why I did not want to be Miss Fox."

"Oh, my dear!" cried Margaret. "How could you keep me in the dark? How stupid—how utterly stupid of me, not to know you! And yet, how could I have guessed that Mrs. Peyton's companion was Peggy's own beloved Grace? You must be my Grace, too, please; I will have neither wolves nor foxes, but only Grace, or the Horned Owl."

She kissed Grace, who returned the kiss warmly. But now Peggy, who had been silent for a moment in sheer amazement, broke in:

"What does this all mean?" she cried. "Have you dropped from the moon, Grace Wolfe, or where do you come from? You and Margaret have met before? Where, and how, and when? I must know all about it, this very instant."

The situation was soon explained. Jean, who had hung back, shy and frightened, was brought forward and introduced; and soon all four girls were seated comfortably on the floor, talking as if nothing astonishing had happened. Only every few minutes Peggy would put her hand out and touch Grace's shoulder, as if to make sure that she was genuine flesh and blood, and not some phantom conjured up out of the moonlight.

"I have tried twice to see you," Margaret said. "Both times I seemed to have come just at the wrong moment. Do tell me how you are getting on, Grace! How has Mrs. Peyton been since you have been there? It is very seldom that I am so many days without seeing her."

"Singular lady!" said Grace. "Beautiful, but singular. She thinks me mad, so matters are equal. Why, we get on—somewhere! I am not sure where. At present, I am in disgrace. She did not like her chocolate this morning, and being in a pet, bade me throw it out of window; I obeyed. It appears the cup was valuable, which was a pity, as its bones are scattered far and wide."

"You threw the cup, too? Grace!"

"Naturally I threw the cup. I am going on the principle of doing exactly what she tells me to do; thus she may discover the unreason of her conduct. Tu-whit! Yesterday she was displeased with an embroidered muslin jacket, and said she never wanted to see it again. I tore it up; she was displeased. To-night she took a dislike to my dress, and told me not to come near her till morning. Behold me here; I think it probable that at this moment she is raising the house for me and desiring greatly to be rubbed. These things are instructive to her. I have put her to sleep every night by rubbing, and now she will not sleep. Poor lady; so sad for her!"

All this was said quietly, pensively, with an air of mild consideration. Margaret looked at her, wondering. No one had ever crossed Mrs. Peyton before. One "companion" after another had been engaged, been tyrannized over for a few weeks, and then dismissed. What would be the effect of this opposite treatment? Timid herself, she had always met the vagaries of her beautiful friend with, at most, a gentle protest. If matters were too bad, she stayed away for a week, and was sure to find the lady in her most winning mood at the end of that time; but she had never attempted any more severe measure than this.

"Do you think—do you feel as if you were getting hold of her at all, Grace?" she asked. "She is really very fascinating, when she wants to be."

"I am not fascinated!" said Grace; and for a moment the half-whimsical, half-reckless look, which was her usual expression, gave way to one that was stern enough. "Mrs. Peyton appears to me to be a wholly selfish person; a thing rarely met with in such entirety. I have promised my Good Physician that I will try to rouse her, and see if there is any scrap of woman left inside this pretty shell; I am going to do my best. I think it doubtful if there is, but I am going to do my best."

Peggy gazed at her with adoring eyes and felt absolute assurance that Mrs. Peyton would shortly be converted into an angel. Did not Grace always do what she undertook to do?

With one of her sudden movements, Grace turned to her, and put her hands on her shoulders. "Behold my Innocent happy!" she said. "What of the other Owls, Babe? Do they hoot happily, and flap friskily?"

"Oh, Grace, they want to hear from you so much! The Snowy is really anxious. She is afraid you are sick, or—or something. Do write to her, dear; won't you?"

"The Snowy," said Grace, "is one of the few wholly satisfactory persons in the world. I have an immense respect for the Snowy, as well as a strong affection. If I could write to anybody, I think it would be to her. It may even be done, Innocent. Who knows?"

"She was afraid—" Peggy hesitated.

"She was afraid," said Grace, coolly, "that I was going on the variety stage. Yes; but you see, I did not. But I admit there are grounds—yes, I will write, Innocent. And now I must go," she added, rising. "I may come again, Margaret? Tie a white ribbon on the window-tassel when you do not want me. Good night!"

"Oh, but, my dear, you are not going out in that way!" cried Margaret, in distress. "Why not go down-stairs and out of the door, like a Christian?"

"There is nothing distinctively unchristian, I hold, in going by way of the window," replied Grace, her hand already on the sash. "Consider, I pray you, the rapture of the one method, the futile stupidity of the other. Enough! I am gone."

She slipped lightly over the sill and was gone, leaving the others staring at each other. Peggy ran to the window and looked after her. "She is all right, Margaret!" she cried; for Margaret was visibly distressed and alarmed. "The woodbine is very thick and strong, and there is the spout, too. There! She is down now, all safe. Good night! oh, good night, dear Goat!"

About this time, Hugh Montfort, having said good night to his uncle and the two Merryweathers, sauntered down the garden walk, for one more turn, one more look at the night. It was a wonderful night. The moon was full, and Fernley lay bathed in a flood of silver light, that seemed to transform the old brown house into a fairy palace, stately and splendid. There was no wind, and no sound broke the stillness; yes, it might well be an enchanted palace, where every living thing lay fast bound by some mighty spell. The leaves drooped motionless from the branches; beyond the dark masses of trees, the broad lawns lay in green and silver.

"It's more like something Greek!" said Hugh. "Tempe, or some such place. If a dryad, now, were to come out from that great tulip-tree—good heavens!"

He stopped short, in the deep shadow of a clump of chestnut-trees. Something moved, behind the very tree he was looking at. A figure came lightly out into the open; a woman's figure, slight and supple, clad in shadowy white. A dryad? No! the girl he had seen in the summer-house. He knew the face, as it shone upturned in the moonlight; knew the firm mouth and chin, the blue eyes, the look of careless power; seen once only, it was as if he had known the face all his life.

What was she doing? A smile lighted her grave eyes suddenly. She extended her arms, her face still raised to the moon. Her whole figure, light as thistle-down, began to sway, to drift hither and thither over the silver-green lawn. Dancing, was she? It was no human dance, surely; the name was too common for this marvel of motion. A wave cresting and curling toward its break; a cloud blown lightly along a summer sky by a gentle wind; a field of grain, bending and rippling under the same wind. Hugh thought of all these things, and rejected each in turn, as unworthy of comparison to this, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He watched her, as if in a dream of delight; each moment it seemed that he must wake, and find the lovely vision gone. It was too rare, too perfect to be real. It seemed as if all the moonlight in the world were drawn to this one spot, to shine on that white figure, dancing, swaying, hither and thither—

Ah! it was over. She stopped; threw, it seemed, some words upward toward the moon, accompanying them with a wave of her hand. Then she turned away, and passed slowly out of sight, under the dark trees. As she went, she began to sing; softly at first, a mere breath of sound; but as she passed farther and farther on, her song rang out clear and sweet; the voice and the song that he had heard the night before, in the field beyond the wall:

"Trois anges sont venus ce soir, M'apportaient de bien belles choses!"



CHAPTER IX.

ABOUT NOTHING IN PARTICULAR

"Jerusalem!" said Philip Merryweather.

"And Madagascar!" responded his twin brother. "Well, what did I tell you, old Towser?"

"Yes, I know; but last night, you see, I was half-asleep, and didn't see it all. This is what I call a room."

Phil sat up in bed, and looked about the great nursery, into which the early sun was shining brightly.

"The bigness of it!" he said, "if nothing more. You could have quite a track round this, do you know it? Most rooms are all walls; I hate walls. Shove the furniture into the middle, and chalk a six-foot track—hey? What do you say?"

"This!" replied Gerald, throwing a pillow with accurate aim. "Does it occur to your arboreal, if not river-drift mind, that there are people under this room? Heehaw! excuse me for not sooner addressing you in your own language. Here, belay that! I want to know what you think of them all."

"Jolly!" was Phil's brief but emphatic verdict. But Gerald seemed to demand something more. "Isn't Mr. Montfort the most corking person you ever saw?"

"Except three, I should say he was. That lame chap is a corker, too. Reminds me a bit of the Codger, I don't know why."

"So he does!" said Gerald, eagerly. "I didn't see it before. Queer stunt, too, because she always makes me think of Hildegarde."

"Who? Miss Peggy? I don't—"

"No, no! Who said anything about Miss Peggy? Miss Montfort, of course."

"They are all Miss Montforts. You mean Miss Margaret? Well—I see what you mean. She hasn't Hildegarde's beauty, though. Very attractive, but—"

"That's what I mean!" said Gerald, eagerly. "There's something of that quiet way, that takes hold of you and—oh, I didn't mean that they would be taken for sisters. Look here, Elderly Ape, was you thinking of getting up, or should I bring his gruel, and feed him wiz a 'poon, a pretty toddlekins?"

"A pretty toddlekins will break your pretty noddlekins," replied Philip. "Avast there, and heave sponges!" And the conversation ended in a grand splashing duet executed in two enormous bath-tubs that stood in different corners of the great room.

It was a merry party that met at breakfast. John Montfort looked round the table with pleasure, and wondered how he had ever sat here alone, year after year, when this kind of thing was to be had, apparently for the asking. Margaret's sweet face, opposite him, was radiant; it struck Mr. Montfort that he had never seen her look so pretty before. The delicate rose-flush on her cheek, the light in her eyes, an indescribable air of gaiety, of lightness, about her whole figure—

"Why, this is what she needed!" said Mr. Montfort to himself. "The children were all very well; I am all very well myself, for an old uncle, but children and old uncles are not all that a lassie needs. Ah, well, it is all as it should be. We remember, Rose!"

Gerald, at Margaret's left hand, was talking eagerly. If her face was radiant, his was sparkling. For the first time in his life, it is probable, he seemed to take little heed of his breakfast.

"Do you remember the thunder-storm, Miss Montfort? and the way that little chap ran around the long corridor? He's going to make a great runner some day. Cork—very nice little fellow. You say he isn't here now? I'm sorry! I wanted the Ape to see him."

"The Ape?"

"The Old Un. My brother, Long-leggius Ridiculus. Christian name Philip, but what has he done that I should call him that?"

Margaret laughed. She did not fully understand, but everything Gerald said seemed to her funny. "What does he call you?" she asked. "Or do you invent new names every day? Last night I heard you calling him—what was it? Ornithorhynchus Paradoxus?"

"It might have been!" said Gerald, with modest pride. "I can 'gleek upon occasion.' I can also sling a syllable with the next man. It is only at monosyllables that I draw the line. When I call him Ape, I have to tack an adjective to it, or things happen. Miss Montfort, you don't know how glad I was to come. It was awfully kind of Mr. Montfort to ask us. I've always wanted to come again, and I didn't know when I should have a chance. There—there isn't any other place like this in the world, I believe. I've told the Ape a lot about it, and he was keen to see it, too. What a cork—that is, what an extremely fine fellow your cousin appears to be."

"Do you mind if I ask," said Margaret; "is 'cork' a complimentary term?"

Gerald blushed. "Why, you see," he said, rather ruefully, "I made up my mind that I would drop it when I came here. 'Corker,' and 'corking'—well, it means that a person is all right, don't you know? That he's awfully jolly, and—and—corking, in short. It's the thing fellows say nowadays. I get into the way of it, and then I go home, and the Mater says things to me. She doesn't like slang, and of course you don't either, Miss Montfort. I'll try not to do it again, truly I will."

"Oh, but I don't mind that kind of slang!" said Margaret; and she wondered at herself even as she spoke. "It—it seems so funny, somehow. I suppose when slang is really funny—"

She looked up and caught her uncle looking at her with an expression of amusement. She blushed in her turn, stammered, and took refuge behind her coffee-urn.

Meantime Peggy and Philip had fallen deep in conversation. He was the brother of Gertrude Merryweather, the beloved Snowy Owl of Peggy's happiest school-days; that was enough for Peggy. She was used to boys and brothers, and felt none of the shyness that often made Margaret's tongue trip and stammer in spite of her two years' advantage. Peggy was full of eager questionings:

"How is she looking? dear lovely thing! Do you think she will go to college this fall? Oh, do try to make her! I do so want to have her back again,—near us, I mean. The Fluffy enters this fall, you know; the Snowy ought to come, too. Do try to make her, won't you, Mr. Merryweather?"

Phil looked grave. "Said the kangaroo to the duck, this requires a little reflection!" he said. "The child Toots has her good points, as you observe, Miss Montfort. She is a rather nice child, and we like to have her at home. She has been at this old school three years, and I don't see the good of sisters if they are somewhere else all the time. Not that I should wish to stand in the way of the child Toots; but you see, Bell is off, too, and the Mater has been having things the matter with her,—rheumatism and that,—and the child Toots is useful at home,—uncommon useful she is."

"Oh! but—of course I'm aw—dreadfully sorry your mother isn't well; but—but Gertrude wants to come, doesn't she? Oh, well, I shall hope it will be all right. And oh! what do you think, Mr. Merryweather? The most astonishing thing happened last night. I must write and tell Gertrude all about it. The Horny is near here."

"The Horny? Not—"

"Yes, Grace Wolfe. Think of it! Do you know her? Well, of course Gertrude has told you all about her. She is the most wonderful person in the world, and she is living close by here, taking care of some one,—you know she means to be a nurse. You know how wonderful she was when that poor girl was so sick at school—and she has been staying at Doctor Flower's, and he persuaded her to come and take care of this lady. You must see her,—I want everybody to see her. She isn't like anybody else, you know. Why, just when you look at her you feel that; I don't know what it is,—I can't explain,—but it's there. And then her voice! When she sings, it's—it's like magic, somehow. Oh, dear! I wish I could express myself; I never know how to say things."

"You are saying them beautifully!" said gallant Philip. "Besides, of course, Toots has told me a good deal about your wonderful friend. Does she still go climbing all about, disdaining doors and stairs, and using windows instead?"

"Oh, hush!" said Peggy. "I don't know whether we are to speak of it or not, but—she came up the wall, and in at our window last night."

"No!"

"Yes, she did. Don't tell anybody, because she might not like it. She fluttered in like a bird, and stayed awhile, and then fluttered out again. And then—we heard her singing in the distance as she went back, and really and truly, it seemed like fairy music."

Something made Peggy look up at this moment, and she caught Hugh Montfort's eyes fixed on her with so intent a gaze that she stumbled and blushed, and thought she had said something wrong. "Don't ask me anything about it," she murmured to her neighbor. "Perhaps—they may not like to have people climb up the walls here; I wouldn't get Grace into trouble for twenty worlds."

"Hugh," said Mr. Montfort, "I am going to get you to do the honors of the garden and stables to these young gentlemen, as I am busy this morning. The girls have a dozen plans, no doubt; but perhaps Peggy and Jean would like to go with you and see the puppies, while Margaret sees to her housekeeping. How does that suit you all?"

Every one acquiesced in the arrangement, and, as they went out into the garden, Peggy managed to slip beside her brother.

"What did I say that was wrong, Hugh? You were looking at me as if I had done all kinds of things. Would Uncle John mind her climbing up the wall, do you think? She couldn't possibly hurt it; she is light as a feather; and Margaret didn't say anything about her not doing it again."

A faint color crept into Hugh's brown cheek.

"My dear little Peggy," he said, "you must not be so imaginative. It is a new trait in you. What possible objection could there be to a young lady climbing up the wall if she enjoys it? It seemed—a little unusual, I suppose, and so I was interested. Was I indiscreet? I hardly supposed you would be having confidences with young Merryweather quite so soon."

"Hugh, don't be ridiculous. Then it's all right, and I am so glad! Thank you, dear."

She was springing away, but Hugh called her back.

"One moment, Peggy. This—this friend of yours seems to be a remarkable person. Has she other accomplishments besides climbing? Did I hear you speak of singing?"

"Oh, Hugh, I wish you could hear her sing! You might have heard her last night, if you had only been out. It was full moon, and the moon makes her mad, she says. Anyhow, when the moon is out she is wilder than ever, fuller of—whatever it is that she is full of; I don't know, something like a spirit, or a bird. Once I saw her dance in the moonlight, and I shall never forget it as long as I live."

"No more shall I," said Hugh, under his breath. "Thank you, Peggy," he said aloud. "Don't let me keep you, my dear; or were you coming with us?"

"Oh, I don't know, Hugh; I want to do so many things, all at once. I want to show Jean the house, and the garden, and the summer-houses, and—oh! oh, you darlings! you beauties! Hugh, do look at these lovely duckies!"

The "lovely duckies" were Nip and Tuck, who came leaping and dancing up the walk, wagging and sneezing, with every demonstration of frantic joy.

"Which is which? Nip, oh, you dear! Give a paw! Do they know how to give a paw, Hugh?"

"They know how to fetch," said Hugh. "Here, Tuck! here, boys! What have I got?"

He held up a stick; straightway the dogs went mad, and yelled and danced, sneezed and yapped, like wild creatures. "Fetch!" said Hugh, throwing the stick. Together the puppies flashed off in pursuit; fell upon the stick and each other, and rolled over and over, still in frenzied voice and motion; finally came to an understanding, and, taking each an end in his mouth, came cantering abreast up to Hugh, and, laying the stick at his feet, looked up and asked for more, as plainly as ever did Oliver Twist. Here was a pleasant amusement for young people. The grave Hugh and the gay Merryweathers, Peggy and Jean, all became absorbed in picking up sticks and throwing them. There was no end to the puppies' enthusiasm, apparently; they yelled, and rushed, and yelled and rushed again; and when Margaret came out an hour afterward, anxious lest her guests should find time hang heavy on their hands, she found one and all flushed and breathless, hurling sticks and stones, and making almost half as much noise as the dogs themselves. At sight of Margaret, cool and pearly in her white dress, Gerald and Peggy dropped their sticks, and looked abashed; but Hugh called to her merrily: "Margaret, they are making great progress. I think my pupil has got farther than yours, though. Miss Margaret and I are training them for a prize contest," he added, turning to Gerald. "This is an extension of their usual practice, that is all."

"Hurrah!" said Gerald, much relieved. "I was afraid she would think—I didn't know whether she would approve," he concluded, somewhat lamely.

It was amazing. It was rather as if the Venus of Milo had begun to sing light opera, Gerald thought; but after all, how much pleasanter if she should, than to stand there all day and wonder how she was going to eat her breakfast without any arms. With this shocking reflection, Master Gerald betook himself once more to the throwing of sticks, and the sport went on till Margaret called the puppies off, declaring that they would be too tired for their afternoon run.

"She takes care of everything, you see!" said Gerald, aside to his brother. "All without any fuss; that's just like Hilda, too."

"Yes," said Phil. "Appears to be a corker!"

"I wish you wouldn't talk so much slang, Phil!" said Gerald. "What kind of word is that to use in speaking of Miss Montfort?"

Philip looked up in amazement, and saw his brother flushed, and evidently annoyed in earnest.

"Well, may I be split and buttered!" said Phil.

"I wish you were!" said Gerald, forcing a laugh. "Come along, and don't be an ass!"



CHAPTER X.

GRACE'S SYSTEM

"Margaret!"

"Yes, Mrs. Peyton."

"Is that door shut? lock it, will you? and—just go and look out of the window, please. No one there? Thank you!"

She sank back on her pillows with a sigh of relief.

"What is it?" asked Margaret, soothingly. "What troubles you, dear Mrs. Peyton?"

"I am frightened!" said Emily Peyton.

"Frightened?"

"Yes. I am afraid of that girl, Margaret."

"What girl? You cannot possibly mean Grace?"

Mrs. Peyton glanced around her. Evidently she did mean Grace.

"She behaves so!" she said, in a low voice. "I don't think she is in her right mind, to begin with; it is terrible to be with a person who may break out into madness at any moment."

"My dear," said Margaret, "you are absolutely and wholly mistaken. Grace is as sane as I am. She is one of the sanest persons I have ever known, it seems to me. Of course she is singular—eccentric, if you like. But what has she been doing, to disturb you so?"

Mrs. Peyton glanced around her again, with an apprehensive glance. "Well!" she said, "I—I suppose I may as well tell you, Margaret. I have been ill so long, I may have become—a little unreasonable. There is nobody who cares; I never saw any reason why I should be reasonable. Having to lie here, it is a pity if I may not have my own way, don't you think so? I have had it, at any rate; I don't say that it has always been a sensible way; I detest sensible things and people. I can't imagine how I have endured you so long. I should not, if you were not pretty and prim."

"Thank you!" said Margaret, soberly.

"Don't interrupt me! This has been on my mind for two weeks, and I want to get rid of it. There is nobody else I can tell. Doctor Flower, like a veritable fiend, after sending me this firebrand, goes off to Europe. A physician should be indicted for going to Europe. Well—I don't know what to tell you, or where to begin. She—she frightens me, I say. I never know what she is going to do next. Yesterday—I felt wretchedly yesterday, Margaret; I was in acute pain all day. I suppose I was pretty impatient. I—well, I threw something out of the window in a pet,—my amethyst rope it was,—and she stood and looked at me quietly, as if she were taking notes of my appearance. I couldn't bear it; I told her to go after it. Just a little impatient cry, it was. My dear, in an instant she was out of the window. Gone, out of sight like a flash. I shrieked; no one heard me. I—you will not believe this, Margaret—I got out of bed, and dragged myself to the window, expecting to see her dead and shattered at the bottom. There she stood, cool as crystal, shaking the leaves from her dress. She looked up and saw me, and if ever I saw an elfish look—do you believe in witchcraft, Margaret? my nurse did; she told me some strange tales when I was a child."

"No need of witchcraft in this case," said Margaret, smiling. "Grace is as active as a cat, and her special delight is to climb up and down walls. There is a grape-vine under this window, isn't there? That would be quite enough for the Goat, as they called her at school."

"That isn't all," said Mrs. Peyton. "She's not right, I tell you; not canny, as Nurse used to say. You may laugh, Margaret Montfort. I tell you, lying here year after year, one gets to thinking all kinds of things. I could tell you—who knows the old woman was not right after all?—listen to this. Yesterday, this very yesterday, she was standing there by the mantel-piece, talking as quietly as we are talking now. Suddenly, without a word, down she falls in a swoon, or trance, or something unearthly. I had let the maids go out; we two were alone in the house. There she lay, and I thought she was dead. I got up again! No one knows what it cost me, Margaret. I have forgotten how to walk; I merely dragged myself across to where she lay. She was breathing; I could not see that she was paler than usual—she never has any color, you know. I called and screamed; I raved and wept, I believe; you cannot fancy how terrible it was, that living, breathing form, lying there, the lips almost smiling, but no sign, no twitching of an eyelid, only the beating of the heart, to tell me that she was not dead. Hush! do you know the story of Christy Moran? My nurse's grandmother used to know her. She was—I don't know what she was—but she used to do this very thing. They would find her sitting in her chair, breathing, but without speech or motion, and afterward they would hear of some devilish act or other, committed at that very hour, in some distant town or village, by a figure wearing her likeness. Don't laugh! don't laugh! I tell you, we don't know everything in this civilization that we talk so much about. I tried to say a prayer, Margaret,—I used to say them regularly,—but—and I had hardly begun before she opened her eyes and smiled at me like a child. 'Did you ever hear of catalepsy?' she says, and she went out of the room without another word, and left me to get back to bed as best I could."

Margaret was silent, not knowing what to say. She had no doubt that Grace was acting upon some theory of her own, and was playing these wild pranks in the hope of rousing her patient to action and exercise. Certainly, to get Mrs. Peyton out of bed twice in two days was no small feat; still, Margaret's gentle mind shrank from the thought of forcing one so frail, so enfeebled by years of invalidism, into sudden activity which might be injurious, or even fatal to her. She could not betray Grace—what should she say? But there was no need of her saying anything, for Mrs. Peyton went on, hurriedly, hardly glancing at her auditor. Evidently it was a relief to her to free her mind.

"Why don't I send her away, you may ask. Margaret, I ask myself the same question twenty times a day. My dear, she is too fascinating! She interests me so! Have you heard her sing, and tell stories? I have not been so interested for years. She makes me restless, I tell you; she makes me think of things I had forgotten, or that I said good-by to years and years ago. Look! she sits down on the floor here, beside the bed—in the night, often, when I cannot sleep, and she has been rubbing me—that is another reason why I do not let her go, Margaret; her touch is like healing balm; there is magic in it, I tell you. She sits down there, with her long hair falling all about her, in the moonlight, looking like nothing earthly, and she talks—or chants, rather,—there isn't anything like it, so I don't know what to call it—about foreign countries. She has never seen them, or she says she never has. That is a little matter to her; she knows all about them, twenty times as much as I do, though I used to travel till I hated the sight of a railway or a steamer. She tells me things about Sicily, and Norway, and the Hebrides,—old Icelandic legends,—about Burnt Njal, and those people; she makes me want to see the places, actually. There are plenty of places I have not seen. She says Iceland is a flower-garden in summer. Margaret, don't laugh at what I am going to say!"

"Indeed, I am not laughing, dear Mrs. Peyton."

"She says—this girl says—she thinks I could—get up. Get up and do things, I mean, like other people. Did you ever hear of such nonsense?"

Mrs. Peyton laughed; but she looked eagerly at Margaret, and there was something in her eyes that had never been there before.

Margaret leaned over her, and kissed the beautiful forehead. "I am sure you could!" she said; and at the moment she did feel sure. Something of Grace's spirit seemed to pass into her, and she felt a hope, a confidence, that had never come into her mind before. Why not? Why should it not be? Mrs. Peyton was still in middle life; she ought to have years of life before her. Why might she not be roused, be taught over again how to live, and to enjoy the good and glorious earth? Margaret's eyes kindled.

"I am sure you could!" she repeated. "Let us try! Let me help Grace, and let us all try our very best, dear Mrs. Peyton. Just think how wonderful it would be to get well; to go about again, and be alive among live people. Oh, my dear, let us try!"

But the lady's mood changed. In a flash, even as Margaret was gazing at her with eager, loving eyes,—eyes in which stood tears of affection and anxiety,—she changed. The mocking smile crept back to her lips, the light of interest died from her eyes.

"Bah!" she said. "Little goose, what do you know about life and live people? It was to get away from them that I took to my bed, do you hear? There, go away! I have been talking great nonsense; forget all about it! Sick folks often talk nonsense. Give me something to play with, and go away! I had a new toy yesterday, an amber ball. It's in the top drawer. Ah! isn't that a beauty? Give it to me! See, how smooth and cool it is, Margaret! Do you think an amber necklace would be becoming to me? I can wear yellow, you know; blondes of my type rarely can, but it always suited me. Do you remember a story about the Amber Gods? It is one of the few stories I ever cared for. To-morrow I'll order a set of amber jewelry, bracelets and necklace, and—"

She stopped suddenly, seeing the grave compassion in Margaret's eyes.



"Don't speak to me!" she cried, angrily. "You are thinking—I know what you are thinking—that I cannot wear necklaces in bed. You think I am a wretched, helpless, faded old woman. I hate you! Go away!" and Margaret went.

As she passed along the garden-walk with bent head, musing soberly enough, something struck her lightly on the head,—a cherry, which fell at her feet. She looked up, and saw Grace sitting on a broad, low branch.

"Come up!" said the Goat.

Margaret smiled, and shook her head. "My dear Grace, I never climbed a tree in my life. I should not know where to begin."

"Time you learned!" said Grace, gravely. "There is no knowing when the race will return to arboreal habits. Come, Margaret, I want you!"

Margaret hesitated, and was lost. She looked about, half fearing, half hoping that somebody was in sight. No! no gardener came with his watering-can, no boy with his wheelbarrow. She turned back, to meet once more the compelling glance, and see the hand stretched out to help her. How it was accomplished, Margaret never knew, but, after a breathless moment, she found herself seated on the branch, too, clinging fast to the rugged bark, and not daring to look below.

"All right!" said Grace, composedly. "See, now, what good cherries these are! I have permission from Madame to kill myself with them, and am doing my best. They are white oxhearts, the finest cherry that grows!"

"Oh, but I daren't let go my hold of the branch," said poor Margaret; "and my head is so dizzy. Dear Grace, how shall I ever get down again? Won't you help me?"

"Not now! Now it is necessary that you should stay for a space, and learn to accept this, as other situations. Begin gradually to look down and about you. Fix your eye on that apple-tree, the one with the hump-back; then let your eyes travel slowly, slowly, over the ground, till they come here, under our feet. There! you see it is easy. Is the dizziness gone?"

"It is certainly much better. I think perhaps, in a little while, I may get used to it, but I am quite sure I never shall like it. Why do you like to climb so, Grace? Why is it more comfortable to sit in a tree than on a pleasant, safe seat on the grass?"

Grace shrugged her shoulders. "Who can say?" she said. "I have always supposed that the soul of my grandam inhabited a bird. Shakespeare! And you know I am an owl myself in regular, if not in good, standing. What would you? It is my nature. And how do we find the Patient to-day? Did she tell you that she left her bed twice yesterday?"

"Yes. Grace, it frightens me, all this wild work. Are you sure what you are doing?"

"I am sure that there is nothing the matter with this lady. I think she can be brought back to health by foul means, but not by fair. I think that in this case the end justifies the means. Voila!"

Margaret looked at her earnestly; she met a gaze so full, so clear, so brave, that her own spirit rose to meet it.

Suddenly Grace held out her hand. "Come!" she said. "Trust me, Margaret! I am not a hobgoblin, though I may pose as one now and then. Trust me; and—by and by—try to love me a little, for I loved you before ever I saw you."

Margaret took the slender hand and pressed it cordially. "I will trust you!" she said. "I have doubted, Grace, I confess; doubted and feared; but now I shall not fear any more. Only—oh, my dear, don't frighten her more than you have to. She really thinks you are—not right; and some of the things she told me were certainly rather terrifying. That trance, or whatever it was—well—what was it, Grace?"

Grace laughed, a laugh so merry and clear that the robins left off eating cherries to see what the sound might be. "What was it? My child, it was nothing. I fell down, I shut my eyes—again, voila! Her mind was prepared for the marvellous, and she found it. Nothing simpler than that."

"But you said something about—catalepsy! the very sound of that word always frightens me, because of a story I read once. I don't wonder it frightened Mrs. Peyton."

"I asked her if she had ever heard of it. A simple question! Apparently she had. Come, let us eat cherries, and strive to approximate the lettuce. Do you feel any green crinkles in your veins yet? And how is the Innocent to-day? I love that child."

"Dear Peggy! I left her trying to teach Tuck to keep a biscuit on his nose while she counted twenty. When I left, he could not get beyond ten, when it was devoured with yelps of joy. But I have no doubt Peggy will succeed in time; she has plenty of patience, and plenty of perseverance."

Grace nodded sagely. "Plenty of patience and plenty of perseverance!" she repeated. "Great qualities, Margaret. I wonder if I have them. I am going to find out. Now—who is the tall person who is lame, and sits in a summer-house?"

Margaret laughed. "He doesn't sit in a summer-house all the time," she said. "That is Peggy's brother, Hugh Montfort. I want you to know him, Grace; he is so delightful; I know you will be friends. Come over to tea this evening, won't you? Mrs. Peyton promised me you should; you know we have been trying for you ever since Peggy came. Do come! Uncle John is planning something for us; he will not tell me what, but it is sure to be something delightful. Promise that you will come; and then you must really help me get down, my dear, for the girls will be wondering where I am."

"Your hands here—so! Let yourself swing clear—don't be afraid; hang still—now drop easily! There! was that so very dreadful? Good-by, cool, green, lovely one! I will come to-night; good-by!"

"What will Rita say," Margaret questioned herself as she took her way homeward, "when I write her that I have been climbing cherry-trees, and getting down from them without a ladder?"



CHAPTER XI.

THE MYSTERIES OF FERNLEY

"Now, Uncle John!"

"Now, Margaret!"

"Don't be tormenting, sir! You know that you promised us a new Mystery of Fernley, if we would all be good. We have been good; virtue shines from every one of us, doesn't it, Hugh?"

"My eyes are dazzled," replied her cousin. "Most of it seems to come from the feminine side of the house, though, I fear. All that the boys and I have done has been to abstain from actual crime."

"Oh, cherries!" said Phil.

"Up into the tree of cherry, Who should climb but little Jerry?"

"Pooh! pooh!" said Mr. Montfort. "What are cherries for except to eat, I should like to know? Yes, you have all been good children, and it is true that I promised—something. Sit down now, all of you, and I will tell you the story of the Lost Casket."

The young people clustered about him, sitting on the floor, on cushions and footstools, on anything rather than the prosaic seat of an ordinary chair. Mr. Montfort looked around on their bright, eager faces. Margaret sat next him, his own Margaret, fair and sweet in her white dress, with the bright, joyous look that had grown so habitual to her of late. Next to her was Gerald Merryweather; it struck Mr. Montfort suddenly that Gerald Merryweather usually was beside Margaret. Beyond them again, Peggy and Jean, with Phil between them; Phil, who as yet preferred his sister Gertrude's society to that of any girl he had ever seen. At the other side of the ring, Grace Wolfe, sitting a little apart, with the curious air of solitariness that seemed to surround her even in company. Hugh Montfort was not far off, though, and his deep brown eyes were gazing at her intently.

"Once upon a time," Mr. Montfort began, and was greeted with a chorus of disappointment. "Oh, Uncle John! You said it was true."

"Not a fairy story this time, sir, please; give us the real thing!"

"Will you be quiet, you impetuous creatures?" asked Uncle John. "It is true, so far as I know. And if you interrupt me again—"

"We will not!"

"Hear us swear!" cried the young people.

"Once upon a time, then, some hundred and fifty years ago, there lived here at Fernley Mr. Peter Montfort, the great-great-grandfather of some of you. He was a worthy gentleman, with a pretty taste for engravings; that Raphael Morghen print of the Transfiguration, Margaret, that you are so fond of, is from his collection. He travelled about Europe a good deal, buying engravings; that is the only thing I know about him, except the fact that he married twice; and on this marrying twice hangs our story. Listen now, and you shall hear. His first wife (she was a Miss Rhinefels) died, leaving him with an only daughter, Christina Montfort. The only time the name Christina appears, I believe, in the family annals. At the time of her mother's death Christina was a woman grown; a handsome person, to judge from her miniature, and of strong feelings. She kept house for her father, and expected to do so all her days, as an early disappointment had disinclined her for marriage. When, after a couple of years, her father, being then a man of seventy, brought home a wife of twenty-five, Christina was, not unnaturally, incensed. She refused to speak to the newcomer, shut herself up in her own apartments, and had a special servant to wait upon her. This uncomfortable state of things continued for some time, when she sickened of some acute distemper, and died in a short time. She possessed some fine jewels, which she had inherited from her mother, and she was heard to say repeatedly that her stepmother should never lay a finger on one of them. It is supposed that she, or her servant acting under her orders, hid the casket containing these jewels somewhere in this house; at all events, they were never found after her death, and have never, it is said, been seen to this day."

"Oh, Uncle John! but has any one looked for them?"

"My dear Peggy, every one has looked for them. I cannot tell you how many Montfort ladies, in all these generations, have fretted their nerves and worn out their finger-nails, hunting for this Lost Casket. I specially requested your Aunt Faith, Margaret, not to mention it to you or your cousins when you were here together. I had seen so many vain searches, and heard of so many heart-burnings, in connection with it, that I thought it best to defer the information till—till later. This, however, seems a very favorable time. You are all too sensible, girls, to be unhappy if you do not find it. To tell the truth, I used to hunt for it when I was a boy. But you can have a grand game of hide and seek, with an object, imaginary or actual, at the end of it; and I wish you a merry game, young people, and I return to my conversation with the Sieur de Montaigne."

He was surrounded in an instant, kissed, caressed, and thanked till he declared his life was in danger, and threatened to take up the hearth-broom in self-defence; finally they trooped off, to hold a consultation in the hall.

"Shall we divide our forces and go in small parties?" inquired Hugh, looking at Grace.

"I say we go just as it happens," said Peggy. "I think that will be much more exciting."

"Perhaps it will," said Hugh, becoming resigned, as he saw Peggy link her arm in Grace's. "Come on, then, girls and boys! Suppose we begin with the garret; Margaret has been promising to show me its wonders ever since I came."

On the second landing they paused to salute the old portraits, and Hugh must point out this or that one that had a familiar look.

"This might be Margaret's self, I always think, Miss Wolfe; this sweet-faced lady in the silvery green gown. See! she has the same clear, quiet, true eyes, and her hair is the same shade of soft brown. A lovely face."

"Are you looking at the Sea-green Me?" asked Margaret over his shoulder. "Our dear Rita liked it, and used to call it her Sea-green Margaret. But come now and look at the glorious Regina, who actually has a look of Rita herself. And I want Grace to see Hugo, too."



She passed on, and Grace was about to follow, but Hugh detained her. "Just one moment," he said, speaking low. "This is a fine collection, Miss Wolfe, but I see no portrait of the Wood-nymph."

"The Wood-nymph?"

"Yes. Do you not know that a dryad haunts this garden of Fernley? Sometimes she is not seen, only heard in the dusk, singing magical songs, that fill whoever hears them with a strange feeling akin to madness. But sometimes—sometimes she leaves her tree, and comes out in the moonlight, and—dances—"

He paused. Grace had started, and now looked up at him with a curious expression, in which anger, mirth, and fear seemed struggling for the upper hand. Before she could reply, a terrific scream rang through the gallery, startling the whole party. Turning, they saw Jean, who had run on before the rest in her eagerness to explore, standing at the farther end of the corridor, with open mouth and staring eyes, the very image of terror.

"My dear child," cried Margaret, running toward her, "what is it? Are you hurt?"

"What is it, Jeanie?" said Peggy, who was the first to reach her sister, and already had her in her arms. "Jean, don't gasp so! You have seen something; is that it? Margaret, what did I always tell you?"

Jean nodded, still gasping, and clung to Peggy with eager, trembling hands. "Oh!" she moaned. "Peggy, save me! take me away! the closet; oh, the closet!"

"What closet, dear? This one? Why, this is the broom closet. There is nothing here to frighten you, Jean."

"The woman!" murmured Jean. "The dreadful dead woman! Peggy, I saw her eyes, and her long hair. Oh, I shall die, I know I shall!"

"Oh, you poor lamb!" cried Margaret, laughing in spite of her compassion. She hurried to the closet and flung the door wide open. "It is only Mrs. Body!" she said. "Come and look again, Jean; it is the lay-figure, dear, nothing else in the world."

"Lay figure?" faltered Jean, still trembling and hanging back.

"Yes, the model. Grandmother Montfort used to paint a great deal, and she had this creature made to stand for the figure. Come and look at it, dear child."

Gently and persuasively she drew the trembling girl forward; the others all pressed behind her.

There on the floor of the closet lay a figure which might at the first glance have alarmed a stouter heart than fifteen-year-old Jean's,—the figure of a woman, scantily draped in white. The arms were stretched out stiffly, the face, with its staring eyeballs, over which fell some lank wisps of hair, was turned toward the door. No wonder Jean was terrified.

"I am so sorry!" said Margaret. "The children, Basil and Susan D., found her in the garret last winter. They begged to be allowed to have her for a plaything, so they kept her in here, and had great fun with her. Her name is Mrs. Body, but she can take any part, from Ophelia to Simple Susan. She took tea with us once, when Uncle John was away, and she behaved beautifully; so you see you really must not mind her, Jean, dear."

"It's no wonder she was frightened, though," said Gerald. "My right arm cleaves to the roof of my mouth, even now that I know who she is. Mrs. Body, my respects to you, ma'am, and I desire you of less acquaintance."

While they were all laughing over Mrs. Body, and commenting upon her various points, Gerald slipped round to Margaret's side.

"Miss Montfort," he said, speaking in a low tone, "do you remember the roarer?"

"Indeed I do, Mr. Merryweather. Do you know, you never showed me the place. You had to go away the next day, you remember."

"That is just what I was thinking," said Gerald. "I have never forgotten that burning moment when Mrs. Cook and I foregathered in the dark. I was thinking, what if the Lost Casket should happen to be somewhere about that place in the wall? and anyhow, it would be fun to explore it, and I promised to show it to you, and I like to keep my promises, because virtue is my only joy. Won't you come with me now, and let the rest go on? Awfully nice in the garret, I am sure, but—won't you come, please?"

"Oh," said Margaret, "that would be delightful! But—it is quite dark, isn't it? and they have all the candles."

"All except this," said Gerald, drawing a slender cylinder from his pocket. "Electric candle; you have seen them, of course. I brought it with me, intending some such exploration, if permitted. I ran up and got it, at Mr. Montfort's first word of this search. Come! the down-stairs hall. This way; oh, please, this way."

Margaret hesitated, looking doubtfully at him. "I—don't know if I ought," she said. "I should like it of all things, if I thought—"

"Don't think!" said Gerald, hastily. "Great mistake to think; wastes the tissues awfully. Action first, thought afterward! aphorism! Or if you must indulge in the baneful pursuit, think how much poor Jerry wants you. Poor Jerry! child of misfortune!"

"Is that the way you get everything you want?" said Margaret, laughing, as she followed him half-reluctantly down-stairs.

"One way; there are others. This is the best, since it procures me your company. See, now! in this niche here, behind the big picture!"

He passed his hand along a panel; it swung back, revealing blackness.

Margaret stared. "I never knew that was a door!" she said. "Mr. Merryweather, do you know, I think the person who built this house must have been a smuggler, a magician, and a detective, all in one."

"Fine combination!" said Gerald. "I should like to have known the old codg—I mean gentleman. No deep mystery here, though, beyond the secret door. He did love secret doors, that ancestor of yours. He may have been an architect, and have thought door-handles unsightly, as they are. But see!"

They were now standing in a deep recess, and he waved his candle to and fro. "This would appear to have been originally used as a kind of store-room, or drying-room. See those hooks; probably for hams—if not for hanging," he added. "If you prefer tragedy, Miss Montfort, you shall have it. There is room for ten persons to hang here, without touching. Their ghastly upturned faces, their blood-stained robes, glimmering spectral white in the—"

"Oh, don't!" said Margaret. "You really frighten me. Yes, they must be for hams; now I think of it, I have heard Frances speak of the drying-closet. This wall is warm; it must be close against the kitchen chimney."

"Jerusalem!" exclaimed Gerald. "Here are steps, Miss Montfort. Stone steps, leading down to a trap-door. Shall I help you down, or—no, I will go alone. When I open the door, a hollow groan will be heard, and the clank of iron fetters. Would you rather have me descend to Hades with a loud squeak, or shall a headless spectre arise, grinning and—beg pardon! anatomy at fault; grinning requires a head. That's the way! my genius is always checked in its soaring flight, and pulled back to earth by idiot facts."

Running on thus, Gerald descended the stone steps, Margaret following to their top, timidly. Sure enough, there was a trap-door at the bottom, with a ring in it; a perfectly orthodox trap-door, suitable for the Arabian Nights or anything else. Gerald took hold of the ring, prepared for a vigorous pull; then paused, and looked at his companion. "I hear voices!" he said. "Hark!"

They listened. A low murmur came up from below; the voices were muffled, by distance or intervening substances, and could not be distinguished.

"Oh, do you think we'd better open it?" said Margaret, who had such a wholesome awe of the Mysteries of Fernley that she was prepared for anything in the way of the marvellous.

"That is what I think!" said Gerald, cheerfully. "That's what it was made for, you see. A door that does not fulfil its destiny might just as well be something else, skittles, or a pump, or—other things. Now this—"

As he spoke, he gave a vigorous pull; the door lifted, but at the same instant the candle slipped from his hand, and fell rattling into some unseen depth below, leaving them in blank darkness. Margaret uttered a cry of alarm. "Don't fall! Oh, pray be careful, Mr. Merryweather!"

"All right!" said Gerald. "Stay just where you are, for a moment, while I explore this—aperture. Ha! the steps continue. You don't mind if I leave you in the dark for just a minute, Miss Montfort?"

Margaret did not mind, once assured that her companion was not engaged in the congenial pursuit of breaking his neck. She began feeling about her in the darkness, darkness so thick it was like black velvet, she said to herself. She found the wall; it was warm, as she said; she began passing her hand mechanically along the bricks, counting them.

A cheerful voice came up from below: "I have found the doughnuts—good ones!—and the—seem to be—yes! sweet pickles. Corking! And—now you've done it, my son! Jam, by all that's adhesive! Put my whole hand in. Jerusalem and Mad—"

At this instant there was a sound as of a door thrown violently open; a flood of light filled the place; light, and an angry voice.

"Who's this here in my pantry? Come out of that, ye rascal, before I set the dogs on ye!"

Gerald Merryweather uttered a yell of delight. "Destiny!" he shouted. "My fate cries out. Quits, Mrs. Cook, quits! Come to my arms!"

And Margaret, peeping fearfully down through the trap-door, beheld her guest waving one hand, a crimson one, in the air, and with the other embracing the ample form of Frances the cook; while behind them the grave Elizabeth looked wide-eyed, shading her candle with her hand.

"For shame, sir!" said Frances. "Do behave, now, Mr. Gerald! I never see such a bold boy since born I was."

"No, no! not bold; don't say bold, Mrs. Cook! Witness my blushing eyes, my tearful cheek, my stammering nose! Hush, listen, there's a good soul. Your doughnuts are food for the gods; also for Jerry. Poor Jerry; never had enough doughnuts in his life. You weep for him; let him dry the starting tear!"

Drawing out his pocket-handkerchief, he gravely applied it to Frances's eyes and went on. "We are looking for the Lost Casket, Miss Montfort and I. If you can help us to it, Mrs. Cook,—

"I'll dress thee all in pongo silk, And crown thee with a bowl of milk; And hail thee, till my last breath passes, The queen of sugar and molasses.

A poet, as you observe. Nothing to what I can do, give me time and a yard measure. Now tell me—"

Margaret's voice from above interrupted him.

"Mr. Merryweather, there is a loose brick here. I can pull it quite out; and—yes—there is a space behind it, and—oh, can you bring the light?"

To snatch the lamp from Frances's hand, blow her a kiss, and scramble up the steps again, was the work of an instant with Gerald. He found Margaret pale, with shining eyes, holding something in her hands.

"No!" cried Gerald. "I say, you haven't—you have! eccentric Jiminy, you have found it!"

"I think I have!" said Margaret, who was fairly trembling with excitement. "Look! the letters on the lid! oh, Mr. Merryweather!"

The object she held was a box some eight inches square, of ebony or some other dark wood, banded with silver. On the lid were inlaid, also in silver, the letters C. M.

"Christina Montfort!" said Margaret. "Oh, to think of my being the one to find it!"

"I should like to know who else had the right to find it!" said Gerald. "Punch their—I mean, of course, if they were fellows; I beg your pardon, Miss Montfort."

"It is locked," said Margaret. "We must wait, and try some of Uncle John's keys."

"Take care!" exclaimed Gerald. "The bottom is dropping out. Hold your hand under it!"

As he spoke, the bottom of the box, which was of some soft wood and had rotted through, dropped, and something rolled out and fell into Margaret's hand. She held it up to the light. It was a hawk's egg, neatly blown.



CHAPTER XII.

THE EGG OF COLUMBUS

"Why, yes!" said Mr. Montfort. "It is my egg, certainly."

"Oh, Uncle John!"

"Well, sir, then—"

"Then you know all the—"

"Was it—"

"Did you—"

"Tell am what—"

Mr. Montfort put his hands resolutely over his ears, and shut his eyes. "When you are still," he said, "I will tell you all about it; till then I am a blind deaf-mute, with no benefit of modern instruction."

A swift rustle, followed by dead silence. Cautiously opening his eyes, Mr. Montfort saw the whole company seated on the floor around his chair, gazing at him with imploring eyes, but motionless and mute. He laughed heartily, and threw himself back in his chair.

"I promised you a merry game," he said. "Have you had it?"

The young people nodded like mandarins, but uttered no sound.

"I promised you nothing more. In fact, I warned you not to expect anything more. On your own heads be egg and emptiness.

"Well, well!" he added, "since you are so good and dutiful, you shall have the whole truth. I found the box some forty years ago, when I first stumbled on that closet. My dear mother was timid, and had a great dread of the Mysteries of Fernley, imagining a secret staircase in every wall, and an oubliette under every floor. Somebody had frightened her when she came here as a child, by showing her I forget what dark passage or closet. So we were never officially told of the various pleasant places devised by the eccentric old ancestor, Peter, who, I have always believed, was a smuggler before he was a patriot, and hid kegs as well as commanders in his smoke-closet. You know the story of General Blankley and the hams, Hugh? Remind me to tell you some day. Well, this being so, of course we youngsters were keen set on discovery; and we formed a league, called the Hovering Hawks. Each of us had his private totem or sign; and when he made a discovery, he left a totem to tell that he had been there. Jim's was an oyster-shell, because he considered the world his oyster; Dick's was a ship, because he always meant to be a sailor; Roger's was a book, of course, for obvious reasons; and mine was an egg, Columbus's egg, because I meant to find things out. You see there was no overstock of modesty among us, more than there is among most healthy boys. We were ready for anything and everything. I dare say some of you may have found oyster-shells about, in various inaccessible places?"

Grace started, and blushed; then hung her head. "I—I found one," she admitted. "It was in a cubbyhole in the parapet of the roof. I thought of bringing it away, but it seemed as if some one had wanted to leave it there, so I didn't touch it."

"Jim's Retreat," said Mr. Montfort. "He stayed up there two days once, in a fit of sulks, and frightened my poor dear mother almost into an illness. Father Montfort was away from home the first day; the second day he came home, and went up after Master James. He was a powerful man, Father Montfort, and an excellent climber. Yes, poor old Jim! he did not climb again for several days. Well, as I was saying, after all this very egotistical digression, I found the box in question some forty years ago. I withdrew the—a—contents—and substituted for them my totem. The contents I put—elsewhere."

He looked round the circle, smiling. Margaret, gazing earnestly at him, saw his face, for the second time since she had known him, change from that of a grave, thoughtful man into that of a mischievous boy, the eager eyes alight with fun, the lips twitching with laughter.

"Wouldn't—you—like—to—know?" he began slowly, his eyes turning from one to the other. Suddenly he broke off.

"There! the play is over, children. Margaret, you found the casket, you shall find the—run your hand along the back of my chair here, my dear; where it feels cold, press downward."

Margaret obeyed. A long narrow box or drawer shot out from the rolling back of the great mahogany chair. Obeying Mr. Montfort's gesture, Margaret lifted out of the nest of silky cotton something that sparkled and glittered in the firelight. There was a long-drawn sigh from the girls, a grunt of surprise from the men, but still no one spoke.

"The pearls are for you, Margaret. I always meant them for you, my dear. I have taken them out every birthday and Christmas and looked at them, but there was always something else I wanted to give you just then, so I put the pretty playthings back again. Peggy, these pink topazes were made expressly for you, even if they have been waiting some time. No earrings, thank heaven! I could not see my girls in earrings. The diamonds I sent to Rita as a wedding present; you remember them, Margaret. Deceitful, was I, not to tell you their history? My child, I said they were family jewels, and so they were. The turquoises must be Jean's; put them on at once, little girl! Very pretty; very becoming. Now,—any more? It seems to me I remember one more article—ah!"

Margaret drew out a long, delicate, glittering chain. At sight of it, Grace uttered a low cry of delight. "What is it?" she said. "I never saw anything so beautiful. Water and moonlight? What are the stones, Mr. Montfort, please?"

"Aquamarine," said Mr. Montfort. "They are beautiful, though not of great value. Now what shall I do with this last trinket, I wonder?"

"There is only one person who can possibly wear it," said Hugh, under his breath. His uncle heard him, and shot a keen, quizzical glance at him, which caused the philosopher to retire suddenly behind the shadow of the curtain. Margaret glided to her uncle's side, and whispered in his ear. Mr. Montfort nodded, smiling. "Just what I was thinking, Margaret," he said. "You read my thoughts accurately. My dear Miss Grace—by the way, isn't it time for me to leave off the 'Miss,' considering my age, and how well we know each other? 'Miss Grace' suggests 'disgrace,' which can have no possible connection with you. My dear Grace, then, as Margaret and others have said, there is only one person present who ought to wear this chain, and that person is yourself. Will you accept it as a little gift from Margaret and me, and from Cousin Christina?"

Grace drew back, her eyebrows coming together in a look Peggy knew well. "I—You must excuse me," she began; but Mr. Montfort, going to her, took her hand kindly: "My child, do not refuse me this little pleasure. You surely do not expect me to wear the chain myself? and Margaret has more trumpery than is good for her already. Besides, as I said, the thing was manifestly made for you, and for you alone. And, besides, again, Grace,"—he drew her nearer, and spoke low,—"besides, again, you are an explorer, too; if you had lived twenty-five years ago, we should have had great excursions together. Take it, my dear, if for no other reason, because it is the gift of the boy who put the egg in the box!"



CHAPTER XIII.

IN THE TWILIGHT

"How strange it seems without the boys!" said Jean.

"And Uncle John!" said Margaret.

"And Hugh!" said Peggy. "I wish they hadn't gone."

"Oh, no, you don't, Peggy!" said Margaret. "It was such a great chance, to have the day on that wonderful yacht. Just think what a good time they are having! I only wish you could have gone too, but it is a bachelor party, you see."

"Of course! Oh, I want them to have the fun, and it was very good of Captain Storm to let Uncle John take them all. Yes, they will have a glorious time; only—well, we miss them so horribly. Dear me, Margaret, isn't it strange that you should get to know people so well in such a short time? Why, I seem to know Gerald and Phil as well—better, in some ways, than I know Hugh. But then, I never feel as if I understood Hugh, he is so—he knows so much. Margaret, dear, it makes me happy all through to have you and Hugh know each other, and be such friends."

"Indeed, it cannot make you so happy as it does me, Peggy," said Margaret, smiling. "He is a wonderful person, that brother of yours. Yes, he does know a most amazing amount, but he never makes one uncomfortable with his knowledge, as some clever people do. He is like a delightful book, that you can read when you want to, and when you don't it stays quiet on its shelf. When I want to know about anything, and Uncle John is somewhere else, or is busy, I just turn over a page of Hugh, and there I have it. Oh, by the bye, Grace, what was that stanza he was quoting to you this morning, just before he went away? Don't you remember? we were coming through the orchard, he and I, and we met you, and he said this. I have been trying all day to recall it."

"Keats!" said Grace, briefly.

"Yes, I know that; it was from 'La Belle Dame sans Merci,' but I cannot get the whole stanza. Won't you repeat it? I know you have almost the whole of Keats by heart."

Grace hesitated, and murmured something about "a time for everything," but finally, half-reluctantly, she repeated the stanza:

"'I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful, a fairy's child; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.'"

"Yes," said Margaret. "Well—thank you, Grace! I just wanted to hear it in your voice; what I was thinking of was, that Hugh always knows just what to say about everything and everybody. He has the whole Golden Treasury in his head, and he always turns the right page. Do you remember the other day, when Michael was so stupid!"

"Michael is always stupid!" said Jean.

"Poor Michael! He is not very clever." (Michael was the stable-boy at Fernley, a new importation from Ireland, with a good deal of peat-bog still sticking to his brains.) "Well, the other day he was more stupid than usual, for he was sent in town to get some rolled oats that Frances wanted. Well, he brought back just plain oats; and when Frances wanted to know what he meant by that, he said, 'Sure, it's meself can rowl 'em about for yez, as well as that feller in the white jacket.' Frances explained the situation to him with more force than amiability. She was in a perfect storm, and poor Michael stood meekly, feeling of his ear as if she had actually boxed it, though really she only threatened to, and wondering what it was all about. Well, Hugh and I came along, and Hugh just looked at him, and said:

"'The ass upon the pivot of his skull Turned round a long left ear!'

There is no other quotation in the English language that would have fitted the case so perfectly."

"You and Grace seem to know Hugh about a hundred times as well as Peggy and I do," said Jean, pouting a little.

"Because they are clever, my dear, and we are not," said Peggy, cheerfully. "If you would learn things, Jean, English literature and all that, you might be able to talk to Hugh. As it is—"

"Well, I think Phil and Gerald are ever so much more fun, anyhow!" said Jean, saucily. "Hugh is poky!"

Seeing an elder-sisterly cloud gathering on Peggy's brow, Margaret hastened to interfere. "Girls," she said, "I have a confession to make. I was just going to make it, when the quotations turned me off the track. You know what Peggy was saying, about our all getting to know each other so well from staying in the house together. That reminded me of something, something I am very much ashamed of; and I think it would be good for my soul to confess it. But you must promise never to tell."

"We promise! We promise!" cried all the girls.

"Margaret," said Grace, "I have been looking for your sins ever since I came, but you were too clever for me; now I shall learn."

"Not my fault," said Margaret, merrily, "if you are a bat as well as a dozen other animals, my dear. Well, girls—oh, I am ashamed, and it really is most astonishingly virtuous of me to tell you about it. Peggy, just before you came, I was very blue; deeply, darkly, most unbeautifully blue!"

"Margaret! you, blue?"

"Hear Peggy making rhymes! Yes, I, blue. You see, the children were gone, and I did miss them so, I hardly knew how to bear it. It is impossible for any one to have any idea, girls, how children, children that are little enough to need one's care, you know, and—and watching, and thinking about, and all—how they get inside your heart and just live there, all curled up in it, bless them! and these particular children are the very dearest ones that ever lived, I do believe. Well, so they were gone, and my heart seemed empty; wickedly and abominably empty, for there was my own dearest uncle, and there were you, my own Peggy, coming to spend the whole summer with me, and as if that were not joy enough for three people, let alone one, I made all kinds of plans, about studying, and teaching you housekeeping, and embroidery, and all kinds of things. We were going to read so many hours a day, and work so many hours,—my poor Peggy! you would have had an unmerciful kind of time!—and everything was going to be quiet and regular and cheerful; I never got beyond cheerfulness in my brightest dreams of the summer. But even the cheerfulness was far ahead, and just then—before you came—I really had difficulty sometimes in keeping a cheerful face for Uncle John when he came in. Why—must I tell the whole?"

"Yes, Margaret, every word!"

"I used to go up to Susan D.'s room and cry over her little pinafores and things. As for my pincushion, I fairly soaked it with tears when I first found it. I told you about the pincushion, didn't I? Why, that little lamb, for days before she went, was working away at something, she would not let me see what. After she was gone, I went up to my room for a quiet cry, and there was a gorgeous new pincushion, and 'I love you,' on it in pins. My dear little girl! Well, girls, so—that was the way I felt, and the way I acted, most absurdly; and then—all this happened. First Hugh dropped from the skies; and then Uncle proposed the house party, and you came, Jean, and the Merryweathers; and then you, Peggy; and we discovered our dear Grace; and so, instead of a quiet, rather humdrum summer, I am having the most enchanting, Arabian-nights kind of time that ever was. And how do you think I feel?"

"Phil would say 'like thirty cents!'" said Jean, who was certainly a little inclined to be pert.

"If I hear you say anything of the kind, young one, I'll swat—"

"Peggy, dearest!" murmured Margaret, softly.

"I'll speak to you very severely. I am ashamed of you, Kidderminster!"

"Look here, Peggy, I won't stand that!" said Jean. "You promised me, when I first came, that you wouldn't call me that."

"Then don't behave like a kid!" retorted Peggy. "There, that's enough. Yes, Margaret, it has all been perfectly delightful and fairy-like; and then the Mysteries, too, and the hunting, and the Silver Closet, and all. Oh, I am so glad we didn't find out everything that first summer. I suppose Uncle John thought we were too young and silly then; not that you were ever silly, you dear darling thing. But, Margaret, there is one thing wanting to it all, and only you and I know what that is."

Margaret nodded. "Yes," she said, with a little sigh. "We want our Princess, Peggy. Oh, Grace, if you only knew our Rita! How you and she would love each other! Peggy, you said that just at the right moment, for I have her last letter in my pocket, on purpose to read to you, and I am sure the others would like to hear it, too. Would you, girls?"

There seemed no possible doubt on the subject. All the girls gathered about Margaret, sitting on the floor, as they liked best to do. Margaret herself took possession of her favorite low chair, and drawing the letter from her pocket, began to read:

"BELOVED MARGUERITE:—I am of return only yesterday from an expedition to the hills, and I find your precious letter waiting for me. No need to tell you that I pressed it to my heart, covered it with kisses. Jack says your letters are the sole thing of which he is jealous. I grieve to hear that you must lose those little ones whom you love so well, even for a short time; but courage, Margarita mia; there are other flowers besides roses, and summer is a pleasant time. You will have Peggy with you, dear Peggy! She sends me a photograph, which shows her little changed in the face; still the dimples, still the soft roundness of cheek and chin. Best of Peggys; if I had her here, what great joy! But I must tell you of our ride. We went, Jack and I, up to the hill camp, where we went last year, after the terrible ride you know of. There we spent three happy days, camping in the green hollow among the hills, with only Juan to cook for us and care for the horses. Ah, Marguerite, what a time was that! We visited every spot made sacred to us by our love. The hiding-place, near poor Don Annunzio's house, where I first saw my hero, swinging in his hammock. Have I told you that I thought him a skulker, a coward hiding to escape warfare? How often we have laughed over that! Then we passed along the road, so peaceful now, so wild and horrent then (how is this word, 'horrent,' Marguerite? I find it in a poem, it seems to me noble; I tell Jack, he laughs, and says something like 'high falu—' I cannot tell what!). We paused to weep over the gray heap where once smiled the residencia, where that kind old woman and her good vast husband sheltered the wandering maiden, protected her at the risk of their own lives, and—one of them, as you know—died to save her and others. Then farther, to Carlos's old camp, where Manuela and I lived, and where I first learned to be of a little use in the world. Ah, the memories, how they came crowding back! I have told you that Manuela is married to Pepe? Yes; two months ago. The wedding was charming! I gave her her wedding-gown, of finest muslin, suitable to her condition, with plenty of lace and ribbons, which the poor child values highly, and I dressed her hair (poor Manuela! She would have done it far better herself; she has a wonderful gift. My present maid is a poor creature, but Manuela is to give her lessons), and arranged the veil and wreath. She was a vision of enchantment, and really thrown away on poor Pepe, who never looked at either dress or veil. Jack says 'neither did he.' My dear, these men! To what purpose do we adorn ourselves, exhaust the treasure of our souls, in efforts to please them? But I wander from my story. My child, this expedition, carrying back heart as well as body to the scenes of before our marriage, has told me over again the story of my happiness. Marguerite, how to deserve it, this wonderful bliss? I study, I try, the dear Saint teaches me always many things—in vain! I am debtor to the whole world, and how much more to the gracious Power above worlds! But enough of this, my Pearl! Your time will come; till then you know nothing of it. I pant for your awakening, I burn, Marguerite, but I am powerless. If I had you here, there is a friend of ours, a paladin, a Roland, second only to my Jack—no! This makes you laugh, I feel it, I see your cool, pearly smile. I am angry with you for laughing, yet I laugh, too. So! now of other things. I think of you always; Jack also; I have told him so much, he assassinates himself with desire to see you all. The time will come! Marguerite—no matter! One word only! Our beloved Uncle's birthday; I remember the day, the Fourteenth. You will honor it, I know, as such a day should be honored, the day which blessed the earth with the best man—except one—that breathes mortal breath. Marguerite, if on that day a trifle should come from the far-away cousins, you will receive it kindly? Ah, how well I know the answer! Bless you, my treasure! I must go to my housekeeping. Dear Donito Miguelito is staying with us now; you can fancy the joy of tending this saintly old man in his feebleness. I prepare myself the little dishes that please him; it is a sacred task; it is like feeding a holy butterfly.

"Adios, my Marguerite! "Ever and ever your devoted "RITA.

"You ask of Concepcion. She is married to Diego Moreno, and, as I hear, is very unhappy. Poor woman, I compassionate her!"

After the reading of the letter, Grace slipped away to return to her patient, and the three cousins sat together, talking in low tones of Rita, and of Grace herself. Jean maintained stoutly that Rita could not be so fascinating as Grace. Peggy and Margaret insisted that, though totally different in quality, neither could outdo the other in amount of charm.

"They are both the kind of girls you would do anything for!" said Peggy; "just anything in the world, no matter how foolish, just because they wanted you to. It isn't a thing you can describe; it just is, and nobody can help it."

"Well, I should think the difference would be in the kind of thing they would ask you to do," said Jean, with wisdom beyond her years. "Grace wouldn't ask you anything foolish, and I should think Cousin Rita might."

"Grace!" exclaimed Peggy; and then checked herself loyally. "Grace wasn't always so wise as she is now, young one!" she said, simply.

"Well, she's a dear, anyhow; I think Mrs. Peyton might have let her stay all night. It's horribly poky, with Uncle John and the boys and everybody away. Why, Margaret, there isn't a single man about the place, is there? Bannan drove them over, and then he was going to the cattle-show, and so was Michael. Suppose there should be robbers, or anything!"

"Suppose there should!" said Peggy, coolly. "If Frances and I and the dogs could not arrange matters with a robber, it would be a pity. Margaret—what is this queer light? Has everything turned red, all of a sudden?"



"The moon rises late to-night," said Margaret. "I have no idea what time it is now. It seems an hour since Grace went."

"The moon isn't red, anyhow!" said Peggy. "I believe—"

As she spoke, she rose and went to the window. "Girls!" she cried. "There is a fire somewhere near. Come and look!"

Margaret and Jean pressed hastily forward to the window. It was a strange scene on which they looked. All of a sudden, the world seemed turned to red and black. A crimson light suffused the sky; against it the trees stood black as ebony. Even as they looked, a crest of flame sprang up above the tree-tops, wavered, and broke into a shower of sparks; at the same instant their nostrils were filled with the acrid, pungent smell of wood smoke.

"Oh, what is it? Where can it be?" cried Margaret.

"Maybe it's only a bonfire!" said Jean.

Peggy shook her head. "Too big for a bonfire!" she said. "I'll go out and see, Margaret. What a pity the boys should miss it! I'll come back and let you know—mercy! what's this?"

The door opened, and a tall, slender figure half ran, half tottered into the room. "Margaret!" cried a wild voice of terror. "Margaret Montfort, save me!"

"Good heavens! Mrs. Peyton!"

"Yes, Emily Peyton. My house is burning. I ran all the way here. I—"

Margaret and Peggy caught her as she fell forward, and laid her on the sofa, and while Jean ran for water and Elizabeth, chafed her hands and her temples, looking the while anxiously at each other.

"Can you tell us what happened?" asked Margaret, trying to keep her voice quiet and even, for Mrs. Peyton was in the wildest agitation. "You escaped, thank Heaven! but—is the fire serious? Who is there now? Where is Grace Wolfe?"

"Don't leave me!" said the sick woman, with a ghastly look. "Margaret, if you leave me I shall die. She—she went back for the jewels. She is in the house now."



CHAPTER XIV.

THE FIRE

The three girls reached the door in the same instant, but Mrs. Peyton followed, and still held Margaret's arm in a desperate clutch.

"Don't leave me!" she repeated. "Margaret, don't leave me to die!"

But Margaret put the clinging hands away. "You are not going to die," she said. "You are going to sit down in this chair, Mrs. Peyton, and be quiet till I come back. See, here is Elizabeth, with water and cologne, and everything comfortable. By and by you shall go up-stairs, but rest here now; nothing can happen to you, and I will come back as soon as I can."

Wondering at her own hardihood, Margaret ran out, shunning the wild pleading of the beautiful eyes which she knew were bent upon her. Jean was waiting for her on the step, but Peggy had disappeared.