Margaret hesitated a moment. The evening was very warm, and once in the house, her cousin would be sure to shut all the windows and draw the curtains. Still, she must not be selfish—

"If I join you in a few minutes, Cousin Sophronia?" she said. "The children—I suppose it is time for them to come in. I will just go down to the summer-house and see—"

The sentence remained unfinished; for at that moment, almost close beside them, arose the strange moaning sound once more. This time Miss Sophronia shrieked aloud. "Come!" she cried, dragging Margaret towards the house. "Come in this moment! It is the Voice! The Voice of Fernley. I will not stay here; I will not go in alone. Come with me, Margaret!"

She was trembling from head to foot, and even Margaret, who was not timid about such matters, felt slightly disturbed. Was this some trick of the children? She must go and hunt them up, naughty little things. Ah! What was that, moving in the dusk? It was almost entirely dark now, but something was certainly coming up the gravel walk, something that glimmered white against the black box-hedges. Miss Sophronia uttered another piercing shriek, and would have fled, but Margaret detained her. "Who is that?" said the girl. "Basil, is that you? Where are the other children?"

The white figure advanced; it was tall and slender, and seemed to have no head. Miss Sophronia moaned, and cowered down at Margaret's side.

"I beg pardon!" said a deep, cheerful voice. "I hope nothing is wrong. It is only I, Miss Montfort,—Gerald Merryweather."

Only a tall youth in white flannels; yet, at that moment, no one, save Uncle John himself, could have been more welcome, Margaret thought. "Oh, Mr. Merryweather," she said, "I am so glad to see you! No, nothing is wrong, I hope; that is—won't you come up on the verandah? My cousin—Cousin Sophronia, let me present Mr. Merryweather."

Mr. Merryweather advanced, bowing politely to the darkness; when, to his amazement, the person to whom he was to pay his respects sprang forward, and clutched him violently.

"You—you—you abominable young man!" cried Miss Sophronia, shrilly. "You made that noise; you know you made it, to annoy me! Don't tell me you did not! Get away from here this instant, you—you—impostor!"

Margaret was struck dumb for an instant, and before she could speak, Gerald Merryweather was replying, quietly, as if he had been throttled every day of his life:

"If choking is your object, madam, you can do it better by pulling the other way, I would suggest. By pulling in this direction, you see, you only injure the textile fabric, and leave the corpus delicti comparatively unharmed."

He stood perfectly still; Miss Sophronia still clutched and shook him, muttering inarticulately; but now Margaret seized and dragged her off by main force. "Cousin Sophronia!" she cried. "How can you—what can you be thinking of? This is Mr. Merryweather, I tell you, the son of Uncle John's old schoolmate. Uncle John asked him to call. I am sure you are not well, or have made some singular mistake."

"I don't believe a word of it!" said Miss Sophronia. "Not one single word! What was he making that noise for, I should like to know?"

Mr. Merryweather answered with a calm which he was far from feeling. His pet necktie was probably ruined, his collar crumpled, very likely his coat torn. He had taken pains with his toilet, and now he had been set upon and harried, by some one he had never seen, but whom he felt sure to be the Gorgon who had glared at him out the window several days before. This was a horrid old lady; he saw no reason why he should be attacked in the night by horrid old ladies, when he was behaving beautifully.

"I am sorry!" he said, rather stiffly. "I was not conscious of speaking loud. Miss Montfort asked who it was, and I told her. If I have offended her, I am ready to apologise—and withdraw."

This sounded theatrical, it occurred to him; but then, the whole scene was fit for the variety stage. Poor Margaret felt a moment of despair. What should she do?

"Mr. Merryweather," she said, aloud, "Miss Montfort has been much startled. Just before you came, we heard a noise; rather a strange noise, which we could not account for. I think her nerves are somewhat shaken. She will be better in a moment. And—and I was just going to the summer-house, to call the children. Would you come with me, I wonder?"

Miss Sophronia clamoured that she could not be left alone, but for once Margaret was deaf to her appeals. She was too angry; her guest—that is, her uncle's guest—to be set upon and shaken, as if he were a naughty child caught stealing apples,—it was too shameful! He would think they were all out of their senses.

"Oh, I am so sorry! So sorry!" she found herself saying aloud. "Mr. Merryweather, I am so mortified, so ashamed! What can I say to you?"

"Say!" said Gerald, his stiffness gone in an instant. "Don't say anything, Miss Montfort. I—I don't mean that; I mean, there's nothing to say, don't you know? Why, it wasn't your fault! Who ever thought of its being your fault?"

"I ought to have recognised you sooner!" said Margaret. "It was pretty dark, and we had really been startled, and my cousin is very nervous. If you would please overlook it this time I should be so grateful!"

"Oh, I say!" cried the young man. "Miss Montfort, if you go on in this way, I shall go back and ask the old—and ask the lady to choke me some more. I—I like being choked! I like anything; only don't go on so! Why, it isn't any matter in the world. Perhaps it relieved her feelings a bit; and it didn't do me any harm." He felt of his necktie, and settled his collar as well as he could, thankful for the friendly darkness. "Indeed, I am all right!" he assured her, earnestly. "Trivets aren't a circumstance to me, as far as rightness is concerned. Now if you'll forget all about it, Miss Montfort, please, I shall be as happy as the bounding roe,—or the circumflittergating cockchafer!" he added, as a large June-bug buzzed past him.

"You are very good!" murmured Margaret. "I am sure—but here is the summer-house. Children, are you here? Basil! Susan D.!"

No answer came. The frogs chirped peacefully, the brook at the foot of the garden sent up its soft, bubbling murmur; there was no other sound. It was very dark, for the trees were thick overhead. The fireflies flitted hither and thither, gleaming amid the thickets of honeysuckle and lilac; the young man's figure beside her glimmered faintly in the darkness, but there was no glimpse of Susan D.'s white frock, or Basil's white head.

"Children!" cried Margaret again. "Don't play any tricks, dears! It is bedtime, and after, and you must come in. Susan, Cousin wants you, dear!"

Silence; not a rustle, not a whisper.

"I should suppose they had gone," said Gerald. "Or do you think they are playing hookey? Wait a minute, and I'll hunt around."

But search availed nothing; the children were not in the summer-house, nor near it. "They must have gone back to the house," said Margaret. "Thank you so much, Mr. Merryweather. I am sorry to have given you all this trouble for nothing."

"Oh, trouble!" said Gerald. "This isn't my idea of trouble, Miss Montfort. What a pretty place this is! Awfully—I mean, extremely pretty."

"It is pretty in the daytime. I should hardly think you could see anything now, it is so dark."

"Well, yes, it is dark; but I mean it seems such a pleasant place to sit and rest in a little. Hadn't you better sit and rest a minute, Miss Montfort? The children are all right, you may be sure. Gone to bed, most likely, like good little kids. I—I often went to bed, when I was a kid."

Margaret could not help laughing; nevertheless, she turned decidedly towards the house. "I am afraid I cannot be sure of their having gone to bed," she said. "I think I must find them, Mr. Merryweather, but if you are tired, you shall rest on the verandah while I hunt."

Gerald did not want to rest on the verandah, particularly if his recent assailant were still there. He wanted to stay here in the garden. He liked the fireflies, and the frogs; the murmur of the brook, and the soft voice speaking out of the darkness. He thought this was a very nice girl; he wished she would not be so uneasy about those tiresome youngsters. However, as there seemed to be no help for it, he followed Margaret in silence up the gravel walk. She need not hurry so, he thought; it was very early, not half past eight yet. He wanted to make his call; he couldn't dress up like this every night; and, besides, it was a question whether he could ever wear this shirt again by daylight.

Miss Sophronia was not on the verandah.

"Will you not come in?" asked Margaret at the door; but Gerald felt, rather than heard, the uneasiness in her voice, and decided, much against his inclination, that it would be better manners to say good night and take himself off.

"I think I must be going," he had begun already, when, from the open door behind them, burst a long, low, melancholy wail. The girl started violently. The young man bent his ear in swift attention. The voice—the cry—trembled on the air, swelled to a shriek; then died slowly away into a dreary whisper, and was gone.

Before either of the young people could speak, the library door was flung open, and a wild figure came flying out. Miss Sophronia threw herself once more upon Gerald, and clung to him with the energy of desperation. "My dear young man!" cried the distracted lady. "Save me! Protect me! I knew your father! I was at school with your mother,—Miranda Cheerley. Save me,—hold me! Do not desert me! You are my only hope!"

It was past nine o'clock when Gerald Merryweather finally took his departure. The children had been discovered,—in bed, and apparently asleep. Three neatly folded piles of clothes showed at least that they had gone to bed in a proper and reasonable manner. Miss Sophronia Montfort had finally been quieted, by soothing words and promises, followed up by hot malted milk and checkerberry cordial, the latter grimly administered by Frances, and so strong that it made the poor lady sneeze. Margaret was to sleep with her; Gerald was to come the next morning to see how she was; meanwhile, Frances and Elizabeth, the latter badly frightened, the former entirely cool and self-possessed, were to sleep in the front chamber, and be at hand in case of any untoward event.

There was nothing further to be done save to shake hands warmly with Margaret, submit to an embrace from Miss Sophronia, and go. Mr. Merryweather strode slowly down the garden path, looking back now and then at the house, where already the lights on the lower floor were being extinguished one by one.

"That's a very nice girl!" he murmured. "Hildegarde would approve of that girl, I know. But on the other hand, my son, that is a horrid old lady. I should like—Jerry, my blessed infant, I should like—to make that old lady run!" He turned for a final glance at the house; considered the advisability of turning a handspring; remembered his white flannels, and, with a bow to the corner window, was gone in the darkness.



CHAPTER XIII.

WHO DID IT?

"Frightened, was she?" said Mrs. Peyton. "How sad! Margaret, you are not looking at my bed-spread. This is the first day I have used it, and I put it on expressly for you. What is the use of my having pretty things, if no one will look at them?"

"Indeed, it is very beautiful!" said Margaret. "Everything you have is beautiful, Mrs. Peyton."

"It is Honiton!" said Mrs. Peyton. "It ought to be handsome. But you do not care, Margaret, it is perfectly easy to see that. You don't care about any of my things any more. I was simply a new toy to you in the beginning, and you liked to look at me because I was pretty. Now you have new toys,—Sophronia Montfort, I suppose, and a sweet plaything she is! and you pay no further attention to me. Deny it if you can!"

Margaret did not attempt to deny it; she was too absolutely truthful not to feel a certain grain of fact in the lady's accusation. Life was opening fuller and broader upon her every day; how could she think of lace bed-spreads, with three children constantly in her mind, to think and plan and puzzle for? To say nothing of Uncle John and all the rest. And as to the "new toy" aspect, Margaret knew that she might well enough turn the accusation upon her lovely friend herself; but this she was too kind and too compassionate to do. Would not any one want toys, perhaps, if forced to spend one's life between four walls?

So she simply stroked the exquisite hand that lay like a piece of carved ivory on the splendid coverlet, and smiled, and waited for the next remark.

"I knew you would not deny it!" the lady said. "You couldn't, you see. Well, it doesn't matter! I shall be dead some day, I hope and trust. So Sophronia was frightened? Tell me more about it!"

"She was very much frightened!" said Margaret. "Mrs. Peyton, I wanted to ask you—when the children came home yesterday, they said something about your having told them some story of old times here; of a ghost, or some such thing. I never heard of anything of the sort. Do you—do you remember what it was? I ought not to torment you!" she added, remorsefully; for Mrs. Peyton put her hand to her head, and her brow contracted slightly, as if with pain.

"Only my head, dear, it is rather troublesome to-day; I suppose I ought not to talk very much! Yes, there was a ghost, or something like one, in old times, when I was a child. I wasn't at Fernley at the time, but I heard about it; Sophronia was there, and I remember she was frightened into fits, just as you describe her last night."

"What—do you remember anything about it? It isn't that old story of Hugo Montfort, is it, the man who looks for papers?"

"Oh, no, nothing so interesting as that! I always longed to see Hugo. No, this is just a voice that comes and goes, wails about the rooms and the gardens. It is one of the Montfort women, I believe, the one who cut up her wedding-gown and then went mad."

"Penelope?"

"That's it! Penelope Montfort. Once in a while they see her, but very rarely, I believe."

"Mrs. Peyton, you are making fun of me. Aunt Faith told me there was no ghost except that of Hugo Montfort; of course I don't mean that there is really that; but no ghost that people had ever fancied."

"Ah, well, my dear, all this was before Mrs. Cheriton came to Fernley! Before such a piece of perfection as she was, no wandering ghost would have ventured to appear. Now don't stiffen into stone, Margaret Montfort! I know she was a saint, but she never liked me, and I am not a saint, you see. I was always a sinner, and I expect to remain one. And certainly, there was a white figure seen about Fernley, at that time I was speaking of; and no one ever found out what it was; and if you want to know any more, you must ask John Montfort. There, now my head is confused, and I shall not have a straight thought again to-day!"

The lady turned her head fretfully on the pillow. Margaret, who knew her ways well, sat silent for some minutes, and then began to sing softly:

O sweetest lady ever seen, (With a heigh ho! and a lily gay,) Give consent to be my queen, (As the primrose spreads so sweetly.)

Before the long ballad was ended, the line between Mrs. Peyton's eyebrows was gone, and her beautiful face wore a look of contentment that was not common to it.

"Go away now!" the lady murmured. "You have straightened me out again. Be thankful for that little silver voice of yours, child! You can do more good with it in the world than you know. I really think you are one of the few good persons who are not odious. Go now! Good-bye!"

Margaret went away, thinking, as she had often thought before, how like her Cousin Rita this fair lady was. "Only Rita has a great, great deal more heart!" she said to herself. "Rita only laughs at people when she is in one of her bad moods. Dear Rita! I wonder where she is to-day. And Peggy is driving the mowing machine, she writes; mowing hundreds of acres, and riding bareback, and having a glorious time."

A letter had come the day before from Peggy Montfort, telling of all her delightful doings on the farm, and begging that her darling Margaret would come out and spend the rest of the summer with her. "Darling Margaret, do, do, do come! Nobody can possibly want you as much as I do; nobody can begin to think of wanting you one hundredth part as much as your own Peggy."

Margaret had laughed over the letter, and kissed it, and perhaps there was a tear in her eye when she put it away to answer. It was good, good to be loved. And Peggy did love her, and so she hoped—she knew—did Uncle John; and now the children were hers, two of them, at least; hers to have and to hold, so far as love went. Go away and leave them now, when they needed her every hour? "No, Peggy dear, not even to see your sweet, round, honest face again."

Coming back to the house she found Gerald Merryweather on the verandah. He was in his working clothes again, but they were fresh and spotless, and he was a pleasant object to look upon. He explained that he had called to inquire for the ladies' health, and to express his hope that they had suffered no further annoyance the night before. He was on his way to the bog, and just thought he would ask if there was anything he could do.

"Thank you!" said Margaret, gratefully. "You are very good, Mr. Merryweather. No; nothing more happened; and my poor cousin got some sleep after awhile. But I still cannot imagine what the noise was, can you?"

"So many noises at night, don't you know?" said Gerald. "Especially round an old house like this. You were not personally alarmed, were you, Miss Montfort? I think you may be pretty sure that there was nothing supernatural about it. Oh, I don't mean anything in particular, of course; but—well, I never saw a ghost; and I don't believe in 'em. Do you?"

"Certainly not. I didn't suppose any one believed in them nowadays. But,—do you know, I really am almost afraid my Cousin Sophronia does. She will not listen to any explanation I can suggest. I really—oh, here she is, Mr. Merryweather!"

Miss Sophronia greeted Gerald with effusion. "I heard your voice, my dear young man," she said, "and I came down to beg that you would take tea with us this evening—with my niece—she is quite the same as my own niece; I make no difference, dearest Margaret, I assure you,—with my niece and me. If—if there should be any more unpleasant occurrences, it would be a comfort to have a man, however young, on the premises. Willis sleeps in the barn, and he is deaf, and would be of little use. He couldn't even be of the smallest use, if we should be murdered in our beds."

"Oh, but we are not going to be murdered, Cousin Sophronia," said Margaret, lightly. "We are going to be very courageous, and just let that noise understand that we care nothing whatever about it."

"Margaret, my love, you are trivial," responded Miss Sophronia, peevishly. "I wish you would pay attention when I speak. I ask Mr. Merryweather to take tea with us, and you talk about noises. Very singular, I am sure."

"Oh, but of course it would be very pleasant, indeed, to have Mr. Merryweather take tea with us!" cried Margaret, in some confusion. "I hope you will come, Mr. Merryweather."

It appeared that nothing in the habitable universe would give Mr. Merryweather greater pleasure. At half-past six? He would not fail to be on hand; and if there should be noises again, why—let those who made them look to themselves. And, with this, the young man took his leave.

The children were very troublesome that day. Margaret could not seem to lay her hand on any one of them. If she called Basil, he was "in the barn, Cousin Margaret, helping Willis with the hay. Of course I'll come, if you want me, but Willis seems to need me a good deal, if you don't mind."

When it was time for Susan D.'s sewing, the child came most obediently and affectionately; but her thimble was nowhere to be found, and she had mislaid her spool, and, finally, when everything was found, she had not sat still ten minutes, when she was "so thirsty; and must go and get a glass of water, please, Cousin Margaret!"

"Susan," said Margaret, "I want to talk to you, and I cannot seem to get a chance for a word. Sit still now, like a good little girl, and tell me—"

"Yes, Cousin Margaret, I couldn't find my thimble first, you see; and then there wasn't any spool, and I left it in my basket yesterday, I'm sure I did, but Merton will take it to teach the kitten tricks with, and then it gets all dirty. Don't you know how horrid a spool is when a kitten has been playing with it? You have to wind off yards and yards, and then the rest is sort of fruzzly, and keeps making knots."

"Yes, I know. Susan D., what were you doing last evening?" said Margaret.

"Last evening?" repeated the child. "We were in the summer-house, Cousin Margaret. We were playing Scottish Chiefs, don't you know? Merton had to play Lord Soulis, 'cause he drew the short straw; but he got cross, and wouldn't play good a bit."

"Wouldn't play well, or nicely," corrected Margaret. "But after that, Susan dear?"

"That took a long time," said the child. It seemed, when she was alone with Margaret, that she could not talk enough; the little pent-up nature was finding most delightful relief and pleasure in unfolding before the sympathy that was always warm, always ready.

"You see, when it came to carrying me off (I was Helen Mar, after I'd been Marion and was dead), Merton was just horrid. He said he wouldn't carry me off; he said he wouldn't have me for a gift, and called me Scratchface, and all kinds of names. And of course Lord Soulis wouldn't have talked that way; so Wallace (of course Basil had to be Wallace when he drew the long straw, and he never cheats, though Merton does, whenever he gets a chance)—well, and so, Wallace told him, if he didn't carry me off in two shakes of a cat's tail—"

"Susan D.!"

"Well, that's what he said, Cousin Margaret. I'm telling you just as it happened, truly I am. If he didn't carry me off in two shakes of a cat's tail, he'd pitch him over the parapet,—you know there's a splendid parapet in the summer-house,—and so he wouldn't, and so he did; but Mert held on, and they both went over into the meadow. I guess Lord Soulis got the worst of it down there, for when they climbed up again he did carry me off, though he pinched me hard all the way, and made my arm all black and blue; I didn't say anything, because I was Helen Mar, but I gave it to him good—I mean well—this morning, and served him out. And then Wallace had to rescue me, of course, and that was great, and we all fell over the parapet again, and that was the way I tore the gathers out of my frock. So you see, Cousin Margaret!"

Susan D. paused for breath, and bent over her sewing with exemplary diligence. Margaret took the child's chin in her hand, and raised her face towards her.

"Susan," she said, gently, "after you had that fine play—it must have been a great play, and I wish I had seen it—after that, what did you do?"

"We—we—went to bed!" said Susan D.

"Why did you go without coming to say good night? Answer me truly, dear child."

The two pairs of gray eyes looked straight into each other. A shadow of fear—a suggestion of the old look of distrust and suspicion—crept into the child's eyes for a moment; but before Margaret's kind, firm, loving gaze it vanished and was gone. A wave of colour swept over her face; her eyes wavered, gave one imploring glance, and fell.

"Aren't you going to tell me, Susan D.?" asked Margaret once more.

"N—no!" said Susan D., in a whisper scarcely audible.

"No? And why not, dear child?"

"I promised!" whispered Susan D.

"Susan D., do you know anything about that strange noise that frightened us so last night?"

But not another word would Susan D. say. She looked loving, imploring, deprecating; she threw her arms around Margaret's neck, and hid her face and clung to her; but no word could she be brought to say. At last Margaret, displeased and puzzled, felt constrained to tell the child rather sternly to fold her work and go away, and not come back to her till she could answer questions properly. Susan went obediently; at the door she hesitated, and Margaret heard a little sigh, which made her heart go out in sympathy toward the little creature. Instantly she rose, and, going to the child, put her arms round her affectionately.

"Darling, I think you are puzzled about something," she said, quickly. Susan D. nodded, and clung close to her cousin's side.

"I will not ask you anything more," said Margaret. "I am going to trust you, Susan D., not to do anything wrong. Remember, dear, that the two most important things in the world are truth and kindness. Now kiss me, dear, and go."

Left alone, Margaret sat for some time, puzzling over what had happened, and wondering what would happen next. It was evident that the children were concerned in some way, or at least had some knowledge, of the mysterious sounds which had so alarmed Miss Sophronia. What ought she to do? How far must she try to force confession from them, if it were her duty to try; and how could she do it?

Thus pondering, she became aware of voices in the air; she sat near the open window, and the voices were from above her. The nursery window! She listened, bending nearer, and holding her breath.

"Well, if you back out now, Susan D., it will be mean!" Basil was saying. "What did you say to her?"

"I didn't say anything!" Susan D. answered, sullenly.

"Why didn't you tell her that we had a pain, and didn't want to bother her, 'cause she had company?" cried Merton, eagerly. "I had that all fixed to tell her, only she never asked me."

"I wouldn't tell her a lie," said Susan D. "Basil, you wouldn't tell her a lie, either, you know you wouldn't, when she looks at you that way, straight at you, and you can't get your eyes away."

"Of course I wouldn't," said Basil. "And the reason she didn't ask you, Merton, was because she knew it wouldn't make much difference what you said. That's the trouble about you. But now, Susan, if you had only had a little dipplo-macy, you could have got through all right, as I did."

"I don't know what you mean by dipplo-macy," retorted Susan.

"Ho, stupid!" sneered Merton.

"I don't believe you know what it means yourself!" cried Basil. "Come, tell now, if you are so wise. What does it mean? Ah, I knew you didn't know! You are a sneak, Mert! Well, I guess in the beginning, when Adam was making the words, you know, he must have wanted to hide from the serpent or something—perhaps a hairy mammoth, or a megatherium, I shouldn't wonder,—so he said, 'Dip low,' and then 'Massy!' for a kind of exclamation, you see. And spelling gets changed a lot in the course of time; you can see that just from one class to another in the grammar school. Well, anyhow, it means a sort of getting round things, managing them, without telling lies, or truth either."

"You've got to tell one or the other," objected Susan D.

"No, you haven't, either! Now, how did I manage? I have just kept out of Cousin Margaret's way all day, so far, and I'm going to keep out the rest of it. I've been helping Willis ever since breakfast, and he says I really helped him a great deal, and I'll make a farmer yet; only I won't, 'cause I'm going into the navy. And now pretty soon I'm going in, in a tearing hurry, and ask her if I can take some lunch and go over to see Mr. Merryweather at the bog, 'cause he is going to give me a lesson in surveying. He is; he said he would, any time I came over. And so, you see—"

"That's all very well," interrupted Merton, scornfully. "But when it comes night, what'll you do then, I should like to know?"

"Easy enough. I shall have a headache, and she won't ask me questions when I have a headache; she'll just sit and stroke my head, and put me to sleep."

"Ho! How'll you get your headache? Have to tell a lie then, I guess."

"No, sir, I won't! And if you say that again, I'll bunt you up against the wall. Easy enough to get a headache. I don't know whether I shall eat hot doughnuts, or just ram my head against the horse-chestnut-tree till it aches; but I'll get the headache, you may bet your boots—"

"Basil, she asked you not to say that, and you said you wouldn't."

"Well, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to. Pull out a hair, Susan D., and then I shall remember next time. Ouch! You pulled out two."

"I say, come on!" cried Merton. "We've got lots of things to see to. We have to—"

The voices were gone. Margaret sat still, sewing steadily, and working many thoughts into her seam.

It might have been half an hour after this that Basil burst into the room, breathless and beaming, his tow-colored hair standing on end. "Oh, Cousin Margaret, can I—I mean may I, go over to the bog? Mr. Merryweather said he would give me a lesson in surveying; and Frances is going to put me up some luncheon, and I'm in a norful hurry. May I go, please?"

"Yes, Basil; you may go after you have answered me one question."

"Yes, Cousin Margaret," said the diplomat. "I may miss Mr. Merryweather if I don't go pretty quick, but of course I will."

"Basil, did you make that strange noise last night?"

"No, Cousin Margaret!" cried the boy; the smile seemed to break from every corner of his face at once, and his eyes looked straight truth into hers. "I did not. Is that all? You said one question! Thank you ever and ever so much! Good-bye!" And he was gone.

"It is quite evident that I am not a dipplo-mat," said Margaret, with a laugh that ended in a sigh. "I wish Uncle John would come home!"



CHAPTER XIV.

BLACK SPIRITS AND WHITE.

The evening fell close and hot. Gerald Merryweather, taking his way to Fernley House, noticed the great white thunder-heads peering above the eastern horizon. "There'll be trouble by and by," he said.

"I wonder, oh, I wonder, If they're afraid of thunder.

"Ever lapsing into immortal verse, my son. You are the Lost Pleiad of Literature, that's what you are; and a mighty neat phrase that is. Oh, my Philly, why aren't you here, to take notice of my coruscations? Full many a squib is born to blaze unseen, and waste its fizzing—Hello, you, sir! Stop a minute, will you?"

A small boy was scudding along the path before him. He turned his head, but on seeing Gerald he only doubled his rate of speed. Merton was a good runner for his size, but it was ill trying to race the Gambolling Greyhound, as Gerald had been called at school. Two or three quick steps, two or three long, lopping bounds, and Master Merton was caught, clutched by the collar, and held aloft, wriggling and protesting.

"You let me go!" whined Merton. "Oh, please Mr. Merryweather, don't stop me now. It's very important, indeed, it is."

"Just what I was thinking," said Gerald. "We'll go along together, my son. I wouldn't squirm, if I were you; destructive to the collar; believe one who has suffered. What! it is not so many years. Take courage, small cat, and strive no more!"

Merton, after one heroic wriggle, gave up the battle, and walked beside his captor in sullen silence.

"Come!" said Gerald. "Let us be merry, my son. As to that noise, now!"

"What noise?" asked Merton, peevishly.

"The roarer, my charmer. Why beat about the bush? You frightened the old—that is, you alarmed both your cousins, with the joyful instrument known among the profane as a roarer. Tush! Why attempt concealment? Have I not roared, when time was? And a very pretty amusement, I could never deny; but I wouldn't try it again, that's all. You hear, young sir? I wouldn't try it again."

"I don't know what you mean—" Merton began; but at this Gerald lifted him gently from the ground by his shirt-collar, and, waving him about, intimated gently that it would not be good for his health to tell lies.

"Well, I didn't do it, anyhow!" Merton protested. "Honest, I did not."

"Honesty is not written in your expressive countenance, Master Merton Montfort," said Gerald. "However, it may be so. We shall see. Meantime, young fellow, and merely as between man and man, you understand, it would be money in your youthful pocket if you could acquire the habit of looking a person in the eyes, and not directing that cherubic gaze at the waistcoat buttons, or even the necktie, of your in-ter-loc-utor. Now, here we are at the house, and you may go, my interesting popinjay. Bear in mind that my eye is upon you. Adieu! adieu! Rrrrrememberrrr me!!!"

Gerald put such dramatic fervour into this farewell that Merton was as heartily frightened as he could have desired, and scurried away without stopping to look behind.

"That's not such a very nice little boy, I believe," said Gerald. "T'other one is worth a cool dozen of Master Merton. Well, they won't do much mischief while I am to the fore. Though I should be loth to interfere with the end they probably have in view. I should like full well myself to make that— Ah, good evening, Miss Montfort!"

* * * * *

It was so hot after tea, that even Miss Sophronia made no suggestion of sitting in the house. They all assembled on the verandah, which faced south, so that generally here, if anywhere, a breath of evening coolness might be had. To-night, however, no such breath was to be felt. The thunder-heads had crept up, up, half-way across the sky; their snowy white had changed to blackish blue; and now and again, there opened here or there what looked like a deep cavern, filled with lurid flame; and then would follow a long, rolling murmur, dying away into faint mutterings and losing itself among the treetops.

Miss Sophronia was very uneasy. At one moment she declared she must go into the house, she could not endure this; the next she vowed she would rather see the danger as it came, and she would never desert the others, never.

"Do you think there is danger, my dear young man?" she asked, for perhaps the tenth time.

"Why, no!" said Gerald. "No more than usual, Miss Montfort. These trees, you see, are a great protection. If the lightning strikes one of them, of course it will divert the fluid from the house. If you have no iron about your person—"

But here Miss Sophronia interrupted him. She begged to be excused for a moment, and went into the house. When she returned, her head was enveloped in what looked like a "tidy" of purple wool, while her feet were shuffling along in a pair of blue knitted slippers.

"There!" she said, "I have removed every atom of metal, my dear young man, down to my hairpins, I assure you; and there were nails in my shoes, Margaret. My dear, I advise you to follow my example. So important, I always say, to obey the dictates of science. I shall always consider it a special providence that sent this dear young man to us at this trying time. Go at once, dearest Margaret, I implore you."

But Margaret refused to adopt any such measures of precaution. She was enjoying the slow oncoming of the storm; she had seldom seen anything more beautiful, she thought, and Gerald agreed with her. He was sitting near her, and had taken Merton on his knee, to that young gentleman's manifest discomposure. He wriggled now and then, and muttered some excuse for getting down, but Gerald blandly assured him each time that he was not inconveniencing him in the least, and begged him to make himself comfortable, and entirely at home. Meantime, Margaret had called Basil and Susan D. to her side, and was holding a hand of each, calling upon them from time to time to see the wonderful beauty of the approaching storm. They responded readily enough, and were really interested and impressed. Once or twice, it is true, Basil stole a glance at his sister, and generally found her looking at him in a puzzled, inquiring fashion; then he would shake his head slightly, and give himself up once more to watching the sky.

It was a very extraordinary sky. The clouds, now deep purple, covered it almost from east to west; only low down in the west a band of angry orange still lingered, and added to the sinister beauty of the scene. The red caverns opened deeper and brighter, and now and again a long, zigzag flash of gold stood out for an instant against the black, and following it came crack upon crack of thunder, rolling and rumbling over their heads. But still the air hung close and heavy, still there was no breath of wind, no drop of rain.

Sitting thus, and for the moment silent, there came, in a pause of the thunder, a new sound; a sound that some of them, at least, knew well. Close at hand, rising apparently from the very wall at their side, came the long, eerie wail of the night before. Louder and louder it swelled, till it rang like a shriek in their ears, then suddenly it broke and shuddered itself away, till only the ghost of a sound crept from their ears, and was lost. Margaret and Gerald both sprang to their feet, the girl held the children's hands fast in hers, the lad clutched the boy in his arms till he whimpered and cried; their eyes met, full of inquiry, the same thought flashing from blue eyes and gray. Not the children? What, then? Before Gerald could speak, Miss Sophronia was clinging to him again, shrieking and crying; calling upon him to save her; but this time Gerald put her aside with little ceremony.

"If you'll take this boy!" he cried. "Hold him tight, please, and don't let him get off. I'm going—if I may?" he looked swift inquiry at Margaret.

"Oh, yes, yes!" cried the girl. "Do go! We are all right. Cousin Sophronia, you must let him go."

Dropping Merton into the affrighted lady's arms, the lithe, active youth was in the house in an instant, following the Voice of Fernley. There it came again, rising, rising,—the cry of a lost soul, the wail of a repentant spirit.

"A roarer, by all means!" said young Merryweather. "But where, and by whom?" He ran from side to side, laying his ear against the wall here, there, following the sound. Suddenly he stopped short, like a dog pointing. Here, in this thickness of the wall, was it? Then, there must be a recess, a something. What corresponded to this jog? Ha! that little low door, almost hidden by the great picture of the boar-hunt. Locked? No; only sticking, from not having been opened, perhaps, for years. It yielded. He rushed in,—the door closed behind him with a spring. He found himself in total darkness,—darkness filled with a hideous cry, that rang out sharp and piercing,—then fell into sudden silence.

"Is it you, Master Merton?" said a whisper. "I didn't wait; I thought maybe—"

Gerald stretched out his arm, and grasped a solid form. Instantly he was grasped in return by a pair of strong arms,—grasped and held with as powerful a grip as his own. A full minute passed, two creatures clutching each other in the pit-dark, listening to each other's breathing, counting each other's heart-beats. Then—

"Who are you?" asked Gerald, under his breath.

"None of your business!" was the reply, low, but prompt. "Who are you, if it comes to that?"

"Why,—why, you're a woman!"

"And you're a man, and that's worse. What are you doing here?"

"I am taking tea here. I'm a visitor. I have been here all the evening."

"And I've been here twenty years. I'm the cook."

The young man loosed his hold, and dropped on the floor. He rocked back and forth, in silent convulsions of laughter.

"The cook! Great Caesar, the cook! Oh, dear me! Stop me, somebody. What—what did you do it for?" he gasped, between the paroxysms.

"Hush! Young Mr. Merryweather, is it? Do be quiet, sir! We're close by the verandah. Was—was she frightened, sir?"

"She? Who? One of 'em was."

"She—the old one. I wouldn't frighten Miss Margaret; but she has too much sense. Was the other one scared, sir?"

"Into fits, very near. You did it well, Mrs. Cook! I couldn't have done it better,—look here! I shall have to tell them, though. I came expressly to find out—"

Groping in the dark, Frances clutched his arm again, this time in a gentler grasp. "Don't you do it, sir!" she whispered. "Young gentleman, don't you do it! If you do, she'll stay here all her days. No one can't stand her, sir, and this were the only way. Hark! Save us! What's that?"

No glimmer of light could penetrate to the closet where they stood, in the thickness of the wall, but a tremendous peal of thunder shook the house, and Miss Sophronia's voice could be heard calling frantically on Gerald to come back.

"I must go," said Gerald. "I—I won't give you away, Mrs. Cook. Shake!"

"You're a gentleman, sir," replied Frances. They shook hands in the dark, and Gerald ran out. Even as he opened the door the storm broke. A violent blast of wind, a blinding flare, a rattling volley of thunder, and down came the rain.

A rush, a roar, the trampling of a thousand horses; and overhead the great guns bellowing, and the flashes coming and going—it was a wild scene. The family had come in, and were all standing in the front hall. All? No, two, only,—Margaret and Miss Sophronia. In the confusion and tumult, the children had escaped, and were gone. Margaret, a little pale, but perfectly composed, met Gerald with a smile, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world for young gentlemen to walk out of the wall. She was supporting Miss Sophronia, who had quite lost her head, and was crying piteously that they would die together, and that whoever escaped must take her watch and chain back to William. "Poor William, what will become of him and those helpless babes?"

"It's all right, Miss Montfort," said Gerald, cheerfully. "I ran the noise down, and it was the simplest thing in the world. Nothing to be alarmed about, I do assure you; nothing."

"What was it?" asked Margaret, in an undertone.

"I'll tell you by and by," replied the young man, in the same tone. "Not now, please; I promised—somebody. You shall know all in good time."

His look of bright confidence was not to be resisted. Margaret nodded cheerfully, and submitted to be mystified in her own home by an almost total stranger. Indeed, the Voice of Fernley had suddenly sunk into insignificance beside the Voice of Nature. The turmoil outside grew more and more furious. At length a frightful crash announced that the lightning had struck somewhere very near the house. This was the last straw for poor Miss Sophronia. She fled up-stairs, imploring Gerald and Margaret to follow her. "Let us die together!" she cried. "I am responsible for your young lives; we will pass away in one embrace. The long closet, Margaret! It is our only chance of life,—the long closet!"

The long closet, as it was called, was in reality a long enclosed passage, leading from the Blue Room, where Miss Sophronia slept, to one of the spare chambers beyond. It was a dim place, lighted only by a transom above the door. Here were kept various ancient family relics which would not bear the light of day; a few rusty pictures, some ancient hats, and, notably, a bust of some deceased Montfort, which stood on a shelf, covered with a white sheet, like a half-length ghost. Margaret did not think this gloomy place at all a cheerful place for a nervous woman in a thunder-storm; so, nodding to Gerald to follow, she ran up-stairs. But before she reached the landing, terrific shrieks began to issue from the upper floor; shrieks so agonising, so ear-piercing, that they dominated even the clamour of the storm. Margaret flew, and Gerald flew after. What new portent was here? Breathless, Margaret reached the door of the long closet. It stood open. On the floor inside crouched Miss Sophronia, uttering the frantic screams which rang through the house. Apparently she had lost the use of her limbs from terror, else she would not have remained motionless before the figure which was advancing towards her from the gloom of the long passage. First a dusky whiteness glimmered from the black of the further end, where the half-ghost sat on its shelf; then gradually the whiteness detached itself, took shape,—if it could be called shape,—emerged into the dim half-light,—came on slowly, silently. Shrouded, like the ghostly bust behind it, tall and slender, with dark locks escaping beneath the hood or cowl that drooped low over its face,—with one hand raised, and pointing stiffly at the unhappy woman,—the figure came on—and on—till it saw Margaret. Then it stopped. Next came in view the bright, eager face of Gerald Merryweather, looking over Margaret's shoulder. And at that, the spectre began, very slowly, and with ineffable dignity, to retreat.

"Exclusive party," whispered Gerald. "Objects to our society, Miss Montfort. Shall I head him off, or let him go?"

Margaret made no reply; she was bending over the poor lady on the floor, trying to make her hear, trying to check the screams which still rang out with piercing force.



"Cousin Sophronia! Cousin, do stop! Do listen to me! It is a trick, a naughty, naughty trick; nothing else in the world. Do, please, stop screaming, and listen to me. Oh, what shall I do with her?" This remark was addressed to Gerald; but that young gentleman was no longer beside her. He had been keeping his eye on the spectre, which slowly, softly glided back and back, until it melted once more into the thick blackness at the further end. Gerald dodged out into the hall, and ran along the outer passage, to meet, as he expected, the ghost full and fair at the other door. "Run!" cried a small voice. "I'll hold him; run!" Gerald was grasped once more, this time by a pair of valiant little hands which did their best, and which he put aside very gently, seeing a petticoat beneath them. "You sha'n't catch him!" cried the second spectre, clinging stoutly to his legs.

"Twice he wrung her hands in twain, But the small hands closed again!"

Meantime the spectre-in-chief had darted back into the closed passage. There was a crash. The half-ghost toppled over as he ran against it, and was shivered on the floor, adding another noise to the confusion. The phantom raced along the passage, took a flying leap over Miss Sophronia's prostrate form, revealing, had any looked, an unsuspected blackness of leg beneath the flowing white, and scudded along the square upper hall. By this time Gerald was at his heels again, and a pretty race it was. Round the hall, up the stairs, and round the landing of the attic flight. At the attic door the spectre wavered an instant,—then turned, and dashed down-stairs again. Once more round the upper hall, now down the great front staircase, gathering his skirts as he went, the black legs now in good evidence, and making wonderful play. A good runner, surely. But the Greyhound was gaining; he was upon him. The phantom gave a wild shriek, gained the front door with one desperate leap, and plunged, followed by his pursuer, into the arms of a gentleman who stood in the doorway, in the act of entering.

"Easy, there!" said Mr. Montfort, receiving pursuer and pursued with impartial calm. "Is it the Day of Judgment, or what?"



CHAPTER XV.

A DEPARTURE.

"I am extremely sorry, Sophronia, that you were so alarmed last night. I trust you feel no ill effects this morning?"

"Ill effects! My dear John, I am a wreck! Simply a wreck, mentally and physically. I shall never recover from it—never."

"Oh, don't say that, Cousin Sophronia!" exclaimed Margaret, who was really much distressed at all that passed.

"My love, if it is the truth, I must say it. Truth, Margaret, is what I live for. No, I shall never recover, I feel it. My prayer is that these unhappy children may never know that they are the cause of my untimely—"

"Has Basil made his apology?" asked Mr. Montfort, abruptly.

"Yes, John, yes; I am bound to say he has, though he showed little feeling in it. Not a tenth part so much as little Merton, who was in real sorrow,—actually shed tears,—although he had no hand in the cruel deceit. Ah! Merton is the only one of those children who has any heart."

"Indeed?" said Mr. Montfort, "I didn't know it was as bad as that."

"Quite, I assure you, dearest John. If it were not for my poor William and his children, I should take Merton with me and be a mother to him. His nerves, like mine, are shattered by the terrible occurrences of the last two nights. He was positively hysterical as he pointed out to me—what I had already pointed out to you, Margaret—that the real thing had not been explained. I might, in time, live down the effect of those children's wicked jest; but the Voice of Fernley has never been explained, and never will be."

Mr. Montfort pulled his moustache, and looked out of the window, observing the prospect; but Margaret cried:

"Oh, Cousin Sophronia, you are wrong; indeed, indeed you are! Young Mr. Merryweather found out all about it last night, only he had not time to tell us. He said it was something perfectly simple, and that there was no need of being alarmed in the least."

"By the way," said Mr. Montfort, "I have a note from the lad this morning. He found some special tools were needed, and went up to town by the early train to see about them. May be gone a day or two, he says. What was the noise like, Margaret?"

Margaret was about to tell all she knew, but Miss Sophronia interrupted. "Spare me, dearest Margaret, spare me the recalling of details. I am still too utterly broken,—I shall faint, I know I shall. John, it was simply the voice that was heard ten, or it may be fifteen years ago, when I was a young girl. You must remember; it is impossible but that you must remember."

"I remember perfectly," said Mr. Montfort. "That was thirty years ago, Sophronia; that was in 1866. Oh, yes, I remember." Again Mr. Montfort became absorbed in the view from the window. His face was very grave; why, then, did the buttons on his waistcoat shake? "And Master Merton was frightened, was he?" he resumed, presently. "Ha! that looks bad. Good morning, Jones," as a respectable-looking man in livery came up the gravel walk. "A note for me? no answer? thanks." The man touched his hat, and departed; Mr. Montfort opened the pretty, pearl-coloured note, and read, as follows:

"DEAR JOHN:

"Don't punish the children; it was partly my fault, and partly your own. I supposed you expected something to happen, and I thought the old trick would serve as well as a new one.

"As ever, E. P."

"Humph!" said Mr. Montfort, twisting the note, and frowning at the window. "Precisely! and so, you were saying, Sophronia—ahem! that is, you are obliged to leave us?"

"Yes, my dearest John, I must go. I could not, no! I could not sleep another night beneath this roof. I have told Willis. I am cut to the heart at leaving you, so helpless, with only this poor child here, and those—those dreadful children of Anthony's. I would so gladly have made a home for you, my poor cousin. I live only for others; but still it seems my duty to live, and I am convinced that another night here would be my death."

"I will not attempt to change your purpose, Sophronia. At the same time I am bound to tell you that—a—that the disturbance of which you speak is of no supernatural kind, but is attributable to—to human agency altogether. If you wish, I will have it looked into at once, or we can wait till young Merryweather comes back. He seemed to know about it, you say, Margaret. And—but at any rate, Sophronia, we can write you the sequel, and, if you feel uneasy, why, as you say— You have ordered Willis? Then I'll go and get some tags for your trunks."

Mr. Montfort retired with some alacrity, and Margaret, with an unexplained feeling of guilt at her heart, offered to help Miss Sophronia with her packing.

An hour later the lady was making her adieux. The carriage was at the door, Willis had strapped on the two trunks, and all was ready. Mr. Montfort shook his cousin by the hand, and was sorry that her visit had ended in such an untoward manner. Margaret begged Cousin Sophronia's pardon for anything she might have done amiss. Indeed, the girl's heart was full of a vague remorse. She had tried, but she felt that she might have tried harder to make things go smoothly. But Miss Sophronia bore, she declared, no malice to any one.

"I came, dear John, determined to do my best, to be a sister to you in every way; it will always be a comfort to think that I have been with you these two months. It may be that some time, when my nerves are restored, I may be able to come to Fernley again; if you should make any changes, you understand me. Indeed, a complete change, my dear cousin, is the thing I should most recommend. Missing me as you will,—a companion of your own age,—you might still marry, dearest John, you might indeed. Emily—"

"That will do, Sophronia!" said Mr. Montfort, sternly. "Have you everything you want for the journey?"

"Everything, I think, dear John. Ah! well, good-bye, Margaret! It has been a blow to find that you do not love me, my dear, as I have loved you, but we must bear our burdens."

"What do you—what can you mean, Cousin Sophronia?" asked Margaret, turning crimson. "I am sure I have tried—"

"Ah! well, my dear, one gives oneself away," said the lady. "You said in your letter to your cousin,—I recall the precise words—'I have tried to love her, but I cannot succeed.' Yes; very painful to one who has a heart like mine; but I find so few—"

"Cousin Sophronia," cried the girl, all softer thoughts now merged in a burning resentment. "You—you read my letter, the letter that was on my own desk, in my own room?"

"Certainly, my love, I did. I hope I know something about young girls and their ways; I considered it my duty, my sacred duty, to see what you wrote."

"You seem to know little about the ways of gentle people!" cried Margaret, unable for once to restrain herself. Her uncle laid his hand on her arm. "Steady, little woman!" he said. His quiet, warning voice brought the angry girl to herself, the more quickly that she knew his sympathy was all with her.

"I—I should not have said that, Cousin Sophronia," she said. "I beg your pardon! Good-bye!"

She could not say more; she stood still, with burning cheeks, while Mr. Montfort helped the lady into the carriage.

"A pleasant journey to you, Sophronia," he said, as he closed the door. "Willis—"

"Good-bye!" cried Miss Sophronia, out of the window. "Bless you, dearest John! Margaret, my love, I shall always think of you most tenderly, believe me, in spite of everything. It is impossible for me to harbour resentment. No, my child, I shall always love you as a sister. I have taken the old vinaigrette with me, as a little souvenir of you; I knew it would give you pleasure to have me use it. Bless you! And, John, if you want me to look up some good servants for you, I know of an excellent woman who would be the very thing—"

"Willis!" said Mr. Montfort again. "You'll miss that train, Sophronia, if you don't,—bon voyage!"

Mr. Montfort stood for some seconds looking after the carriage as it drove off; then he drew a long breath, and threw out his arms, opening his broad chest.

"Ha!" said he. "So that is over. Here endeth the— What, crying, May Margaret? Come and sit here beside me, child; or shall we come out and see the roses? Really astonishing to have this number of roses in August; but some of these late kinds are very fine, I think."

Chatting quietly and cheerfully, he moved from one shrub to another, while Margaret wiped her eyes, and gradually quieted her troubled spirit.

"Thank you, Uncle John!" she said, presently. "You know, don't you? You always know, just as papa did. But—but I never heard of any one's doing such a thing, did you?"

"Didn't you, my dear? Well, you see, you didn't know your Cousin Sophronia when she was a girl. And—let us be just," he added. "You, belonging to the new order, have no idea of what many people thought and did forty years ago. I have no doubt, from my recollection of my Aunt Melissa, Sophronia's mother, that she read all her children's letters. I know she searched my pockets once, thinking I had stolen sugar; I hadn't, that time, and my white rat was in my pocket, and bit her, and I was glad."

Seeing Margaret laugh again, Mr. Montfort added, in a different tone, "And now, I must see those boys."

The children were sent for to the study, where they remained for some time. Basil and Susan D. came out looking very grave; they went up to the nursery in silence, and sat on the sofa, rubbing their heads together, and now and then exchanging a murmur of sympathy and understanding. Merton remained after the others, and when he emerged from the fatal door, he was weeping profusely, and refused to be comforted by Elizabeth; and was found an hour after, pinching Chico's tail, and getting bitten in return. Telling Margaret about it afterward, Mr. Montfort said:

"Basil and the little girl tell a perfectly straight story. It is just as I supposed; they were trying the old ghost trick that we other boys, your father and Richard and I, Margaret, played on Sophronia years ago. If the thunder-storm had not brought you all up-stairs, there would have been some very pretty ghost-gliding, and the poor soul would very likely have been frightened into a real fit instead of an imaginary one. Children don't realise that sort of thing; I certainly did not, nor my brothers; but I think these two realise it now, and they are not likely to try anything of the kind again. As for the noise,—"

"Yes, Uncle John, I am really much more puzzled about that noise, for, of course, I saw the other foolishness with my eyes."

"Well!" said Mr. Montfort, comfortably, "we used to make that noise with a thing we called a roarer; I don't know whether they have such things now. You take a tomato-can, and put a string through it, and then you— It really does make a fine noise, very much what you describe. Yes, I have that on my conscience, too, Margaret. You see, I told you I knew this kind of child, and so I do, and for good reason. But Basil won't say anything at all about the matter. He says it was not his hunt, and he will tell all that he did, but cannot tell on others; which is entirely proper. But when I turned to that other little scamp, Merton, I could get nothing but floods of tears, and entreaties that I would ask Frances. 'Frances knows all about it!' he said, over and over."

"And have you seen Frances?"

"N—no," replied Mr. Montfort, rather slowly. "I am going to see Frances now."

Accordingly, a few minutes later, Frances, bustling about her kitchen, became aware of her master standing in the doorway. She became aware of him, I say, but it was with "the tail of her eye" only; she took no notice of him, and went on rattling dish-pans at an alarming rate. She appeared to be house-cleaning; at all events, the usually neat kitchen was in a state of upheaval, and the chairs and tables, tubs and clothes-horses, were so disposed that it was next to impossible for any one to enter. Moreover, Frances apparently had a toothache, for her face was tied up in a fiery red handkerchief; and when Mr. Montfort saw that handkerchief, he looked grave, and hung about the door more like a schoolboy than a dignified gentleman and the proprietor of Fernley House.

"Good morning, Frances," he said at length, in a conciliatory tone.

"Good morning, sir," said Frances; and plunged her mop into a pail of hot water.

"You have a toothache, Frances? I am very sorry."

"Yes, sir, I have; thank you, sir."

"A—Frances—I came to ask if you can tell me anything about the strange noise that frightened the ladies so, last night and the night before."

"No, sir," said Frances. "I can't tell you nothing about it. There do be rats enough in this house, Mr. Montfort, to make any kind of a noise; and I do wish, sir, as the next time you are in town, you would get me a rat-trap as is good for something. There's nothing but trash, as the rats won't look at, and small blame to them. I can't be expected to do without things to do with, Mr. Montfort, and I was saying so to Elizabeth only this morning."

"I will see to the traps, Frances. But this noise that I am speaking of; Master Merton says—"

"And I was wishful to ask you, sir, if you would please tell Master Merton to keep out of my kitchen, and not come bothering here every hour in the day. The child is that greedy, he do eat himself mostly ill every day, sir, as his father would be uneasy if he knew it, sir. And to have folks hanging round my kitchen when I am busy is a thing I never could abide, Mr. John, as you know very well, sir, and I hope you'll excuse me for speaking out; and if you'd go along, sir, and be so kind, maybe I could get through my cleaning so as to have dinner not above half an hour or so late, though I'm doubtful myself, harried as I have been."

"I really don't see what I am to do with Frances," said Mr. Montfort, as he went back to his study; "she grows more and more impracticable. She will be giving me notice to quit one of these days, if I don't mind. I am very sure the house belongs to her, and not to me. But, until Master Gerald Merryweather comes back, I really don't see how I am to find out who worked that roarer."



CHAPTER XVI.

PEACE.

Peace reigned once more at Fernley House; peace and cheerfulness, and much joy. It was not the same peace as of old, when Margaret and her uncle lived their quiet tete-a-tete life, and nothing came to break the even calm of the days. Very different was the life of to-day. The peace was spiritual purely, for the lively and varied round of daily life gave little time for repose and meditation, at least for Margaret. She had begun to give the children short but regular lessons in the morning, finding that the day was not only more profitable but pleasanter for them and for all, if it began with a little study. And the lessons were a delight to her. Remembering her struggles with Peggy,—dear Peggy,—it was a joy to teach these young creatures the beginnings of her beloved English history, and to see how they leaped at it, even as she herself had leaped so few years ago. They carried it about with them all day. Margaret never knew whom to expect to dinner in these days. Now a scowling potentate would stalk in with folded arms and announce that he was William the Conqueror, and demand the whereabouts of Hereward the Wake (who was pretty sure to emerge from under the table, and engage in sanguinary combat, just after he had brushed his hair, and have to be sent up to the nursery to brush it over again); now a breathless pair would rush in, crying that they were the Princes in the Tower, and would she please save them, for that horrid old beast of a Gloster was coming after them just as fast as he could come. Indeed, Margaret had to make a rule that they should be their own selves, and no one else, in the evening when Uncle John came home, for fear of more confusion than he would like.

"But I get so used to being Richard," cried Basil, after a day of crusader-life. "You can't do a king well if you have to keep stopping and being a boy half the time. Don't you see that yourself, Cousin Margaret?"

Yes, Margaret saw that, but she submitted that she liked boys, and that it was trying for a person in private life, like herself, to live all day in royal society, especially when royalty was so excited as the Majesty of England was at this juncture.

"Oh, but why can't you be some one too, Cousin Margaret? I suppose Susan D. would hate to give up being Berengaria, after you gave her that lovely gold veil—I say, doesn't she look bul—doesn't she look pretty in it? I never thought Susan D. would come out pretty, but it's mostly the way you do her hair—what was I saying, Cousin Margaret? Oh, yes, but there are other people you could be, lots and lots of them. And—Merton doesn't half do Saladin. He keeps getting mad when I run him through the body, and I can't make him understand that I don't mean those nasty, fat, black things in ponds, when I call him 'learned leech,' and you know he has to be the leech, it says so in the 'Talisman.' And so perhaps you would be Saladin, and he can be Sir Kenneth, though he's too sneaky for him, too. Or else you could be the hermit, Cousin Margaret. Oh, do be the hermit! Theodoric of Engedi, you know, the Flail of the Desert, that's a splendid one to do. All you have to do is keep jumping about and waving something, and crying out, 'I am Theodoric of Engedi! I am the Flail of the Desert!' Come on, Cousin Margaret, oh, I say, do!" And Susan D., tugging at her cousin's gown, shouted in unison, "Oh, I say, do, Cousin Margaret!"

If any one had told Margaret Montfort, three months before this, that she would, before the end of the summer, be capering about the garden, waving her staff, and proclaiming herself aloud to be the highly theatrical personage described above, she would have opened her eyes in gentle and rather scornful amazement. But Margaret was learning many things in these days, and among them the art of being a child. Her life had been mostly spent with older people; she had never known till now the rapture of being a little girl, a little boy. Now, seeing it in these bright faces, that never failed to grow brighter at sight of her, she felt the joy reflected in her own face, in her own heart; and it was good to let all the quiet, contained maiden ways go, once in a while, and just be a child with the children, or a Flail of the Desert, as in the present instance.

John Montfort, leaning on the gate, watched the pretty play, well pleased. "They have done her all the good in the world," he said to himself. "It isn't only what she has done for them, bless her, but for her, too, it has been a great thing. I was selfish and stupid to think that a young creature could go on growing to fulness, without other young creatures about it. How will she feel, I wonder, about their going? How would she like—"



At this moment he was discovered by Basil, who charged him with a joyous shout. "Oh, here is Uncle John! Oh, Uncle John, don't you want to be Saladin, please? Here's Merton has hurt his leg and gone off in a sulk, and I'll get you a scimitar in a minute—it's the old sickle, and Willis says it's so rusty you can't really do much mischief with it; and here's the Hermit of Engedi, you know, and he can shout—"

But, alas, for the Lion-hearted! When he turned to summon his hermit, he saw no flying figure, brandishing a walking-stick and crying aloud, but a demure young lady, smoothing her hair hurriedly and shaking out the folds of her dress, as she hastened to meet her uncle.

"Bravo!" said Uncle John. "But why did you stop, Meg? It wouldn't have been the first time I had played Saladin, I assure you!"

"Oh, uncle! I am really too much out of breath to play any more. And besides, it is near tea-time, and the children must go and get ready. I will come in a moment, Susan dear, and do your hair. Are there any letters, Uncle John? Oh, two, from the girls; how perfectly delightful! Oh, I must run up, but we'll read them after tea, shall we, Uncle John?"

"With all my heart, my dear; and I have a letter, too, about which I shall want to consult you. Go now, or Susan D. will be trying to braid her own hair, a thing to be avoided, I have observed."

Tea over, and Mr. Montfort seated at ease with his cigar, the children engaged in an enchanting game of Bat (played with worn-out umbrellas, from which the sticks had been taken: this game is to be highly recommended where there is space for flapping and swooping), Margaret opened her letters; reopened them, rather, for it must be confessed that she had peeped into both while she was braiding her own hair and changing her dress for the pretty evening gown her uncle always liked to see.

"Peggy is actually off for school, Uncle John. It does not seem possible that we are in September, and the summer really gone. She seems in high spirits over it, dear child. Listen!

"DARLING DEAREST MARGARET:

"I am going to-morrow; I waited till the last minute, so that I could tell you the last of me. My trunk is almost all packed, and I really think I have done it pretty well. Thank you, ever and ever and ever so much, for the nice things to tie up my shoes in. They are just lovely, and so is the shoe-bag to hang against the wall. I mean to put away every shoe just the very minute I take it off, and not have them kicking about the closet floor at all, ever. And the combing-sack! Oh, Margaret, it is a perfect beauty! Ever so much too pretty to do my hair in, and mother says so, too, but I shall, because you made it for me to, and think of you all the time I am, and—

"I got a little mixed there, but you will know what I mean, dearest Margaret. Tell Uncle John I am so perfectly delighted with the lovely ring, I don't know what to do. Oh, Margaret, you know how I always wanted a ring, and how I used to admire that sapphire of Rita's; and to think of having a sapphire ring myself—why, I can hardly believe it even now! I couldn't go to sleep for ever so long last night, just watching it in the moonlight. Of course I shall write to Uncle John and thank him myself, but I couldn't wait just to let him know how happy I was. (Margaret, if you think he would like it, or at least wouldn't mind it, you might give him a hug just now and say I sent it, but don't unless you are perfectly sure he wouldn't mind, because you know how I love Uncle John, even if I am just the least bit afraid of him, and I'm sure that is natural when you think what a goose I am.)"

Margaret paused, laughing, to throw her arms around her uncle, and tell him that this was "Peggy's hug;" then she went on:

"I was so glad to get your last letter, and to hear all about dear, darling Fernley, and Uncle John, and Elizabeth and Frances, and all the funny things those funny children have been doing. Margaret, they are almost exactly like us children when we were their age. I never began to think about growing up till I read about how they carry on, and then saw that we didn't act so any more, Jean, and Flora, and I. Jean is younger than me, of course, but she's more grown up, I really think. I think you must have a lovely time, now that—well, you said I mustn't call names, and so I won't, but I know just exactly what kind of a person she was, Margaret, and so do you, and you can't deny it, so now!

"Margaret, of course I do feel rather scared about school, for I am still very ignorant, and I suppose all the girls will know about forty thousand times as much as I do, and they will call me stupid, and I know I am; but I mean to be brave, and remember all the things you have said, and mother has helped me, too, oh, a lot, and she says she just wishes she had had the chance when she was a girl, and I know now just how she feels. And then when I come home, you see, I can teach the little girls, and that will be great. But I never shall try to teach them spelling, or history, for you know I cannot; and I cannot remember to this day who Thomas a Bucket was, and why they called him that.

"Hugh came in just now, and I asked him that, and he laughed, and said Thomas a Bucket was certainly pale before they got through with him. I don't know what he means, but he says you will, so I write it down. Good-bye, dearest, darling Margaret. Give heaps and oceans and lots of love to Uncle John, and most of all to your own darling self, from

"PEGGY."

"I wonder how Peggy will get on at school?" said Margaret. "Very well, I should think. Certainly no one can help liking her, dear girl; and she will learn a great deal, I am sure."

"She'll never learn English history," said Mr. Montfort; "but after all, there are other things, May Margaret, though you are loth to acknowledge it."

"And now for Rita. I'll just run through it again, Uncle John, to see—oh! oh, yes! The first part is all just that she wants to see me, and so on,—her wild way. She has had the most wonderful summer,—'the Pyrenees, Margaret! Never before have I seen great mountains, that scale the heavens, you understand. The Titans are explained to me. I have seen, and my soul has arisen to their height. I could dwell with thee, Marguerite, on snow-peaks tinged with morning rose, peaks that touch the stars, that veil themselves in clouds of evening;' perhaps I'll skip a little here, Uncle John. Interlaken,—the Jungfrau,—oh, she is having a glorious time. Oh! oh, dear me, uncle!"

"Well, my dear? She has not fallen off the Jungfrau?"

"No, not that; but she—she is—or she thinks she is—going to be married."

Mr. Montfort whistled. "To the Matterhorn, or to some promising young avalanche? Pray enlighten me, my dear."

"Oh! don't laugh, Uncle John, I am afraid it may be serious. A young Cuban, she says, a soldier, of course." Margaret ran her eyes down the page, but found nothing sober enough to read aloud. "He seems to be a very wonderful person," she said, timidly. "Handsome, and a miracle of courage,—and a military genius; if war should come, Rita thinks he will be commander-in-chief of the Cuban army. You don't think it will really come to war, Uncle John?"

"I cannot tell, Margaret," said Mr. Montfort, gravely. "Things are looking rather serious, but no one can see just what is coming yet. And this seems to be a bona fide engagement? It isn't little Fernando, is it?"

"No! oh, no! She says—she is sorry for Fernando, but he will always be her brother. This one's name is—let me see. Jose Maria Salvador Santillo de Santayana. What a magnificent name! He had followed her from Cuba, and he has Uncle Richard's permission to pay his addresses to Rita, and she says—she says he is the dream of her life, embodied in the form of a Greek hero, with the soul of a poet, and the intellect of a Shakespeare. So I suppose it is all right, uncle; only, she is very young."

"Young! My dear child, she was grown up while you were still in the nursery," said Mr. Montfort. "According to Spanish ideas, it is high time for her to be married, and I am sure I wish the dear girl all happiness. We must look over the family trinkets, Margaret, and find something for our bird of Paradise. There are some pretty bits of jewelry; but that will keep. Now, if you can stop wondering and romancing for a moment, May Margaret, I, too, have a letter, about which I wish to consult you."

"Yes, uncle, oh, yes! I hope he is good as well as handsome, don't you? She says the Santillo nose is the marvel of all Cuba."

"The Santillo nose may be pickled in brine, my dear, for ought I care; I really want your attention, Margaret, and you must come down from the clouds. Here is Anthony Montfort writing for his children."

"What!" cried Margaret, waking suddenly from her dream. "What did you say about the children, Uncle John? Cousin Anthony writing for them? What can you mean?"

"Why, my love, I mean writing for them," said Mr. Montfort, calmly. "He is, you may remember, a relation of theirs, a father in point of fact. He has found an excellent opening in California, and means to stay there. He says—I'll read you his letter, or the part of it that relates to the children. Hum—'grateful to you'—ha! yes, here it is. 'Of course I must make some arrangement about the children. One of the boys can come to me, but I cannot take care of both, so Basil will have to go to boarding-school, and Susan D., too. If you would be so good as to look up a good school or two, I should be ever so much obliged. Basil can take care of himself, you'll only have to consign and ship him; perhaps you can get some one to go with the little girl, and see to her things and all that. It's a shame to call upon you,'—h'm! so forth! Well, Meg, what do you say?"

But Margaret said nothing. She was sitting with her hands fallen on her lap, gazing at her uncle with a face of such piteous consternation that he had much ado to keep his countenance.

"Take them away!" she faltered, presently. "Take away—my children? Oh, Uncle John!"

Mr. Montfort looked away, and smoked awhile in silence, giving the girl time to collect herself. Margaret struggled with the tears that wanted to rush to her eyes. She forced herself to take up the letters that lay in her lap and fold them methodically. When he saw that her hands trembled less, Mr. Montfort said, quietly, "The children have been a great deal of care to you, Margaret; but you have grown fond of them, I know, and so have I. I think a good deal of your judgment, my dear, young as you are. What would you like best to have done about the little people? Take time; take time! Anthony practically leaves the whole matter in my hands. In fact, I think he is puzzled, and feels perhaps that he has not done as well as he might for them always. Take time, my child."

"Oh, I don't need any time, Uncle John!" cried Margaret, trying to speak steadily. "I—I didn't realise, I suppose—it has all come about so gradually—I didn't realise all that they were to me. To lose Basil and Susan D.,—I don't see how I can let them go, uncle; I don't indeed. You won't think me ungrateful, will you, dear? I was, oh, so happy, before they came; but now—they are so dear, so dear! and—and Susan D. is used to me, and to have her go to a stranger who might not understand the poor little shut-up nature—oh, how can I bear it? how can I bear it?"

"Well, my dear," said Mr. Montfort, comfortably. "How if you did not have to bear it?"

Then, as Margaret raised her startled eyes to his, he went on, in the kind, steady tone that always brought quiet and peace with it.

"How if we made the present arrangement—part of it, at least—permanent? Let Merton go to his father; I should not care to have the bringing up of Merton. But there is an excellent school near here, on the island, to which Basil could go, staying the week and coming home here for Sunday; and if little Susan would not be too much care for you,—she's a dear little girl, once you get through the prickles,—why, May Margaret, it seems to me—"

But Mr. Montfort got no further; for here was Margaret sobbing on his breast as if she were Rita herself, and calling him the best and dearest and kindest, and telling him that she was so happy, so happy; and that was why she was crying, only she could not stop; and so on and so on, till Uncle John really thought he should have to send for Frances. At his suggesting this, however, Margaret laughed through her tears, and presently struggled into something like composure.

"And, after all," said Mr. Montfort, "how do you know the children will want to stay with you, you conceited young woman?"

"Oh, Uncle John! I will teach Susan D. all I know, and a great deal more, I hope, for I shall be learning all the time now, if I have another coming after me. And we will keep house together, and it will be like the little sister, like little Penelope, Uncle John. And then to have Basil coming home every week, all full of school, and fun, and noise,—why, how perfectly delightful it will be! And I will not let them overrun you, dear uncle; they have been good lately, haven't they?"

"They have been extremely good, my dear. All the same, I think you would do well to interview them on the subject, before you prepare all your chickens for the market. See, there are your two coming up the walk this moment. You might go—"

But Margaret was already gone. Mr. Montfort watched her light figure flying down the walk, and thought she had grown almost back into a child again, since the children came. "And yet all a woman," he said; "all a sweet, wholesome, gentle woman. See her now with her arms around the child; the little creature clings to her as if she were the mother it never knew. Ah! she is telling them. No need to smother her, children. I never really meant to separate you; no, indeed. I only wanted you to find out for yourselves, as I have found out for myself. No more solitude at Fernley, please God; from now on, young faces and hearts, and sunshine, and a home; the future instead of the past."

The good man laid down his cigar, quietly and carefully, as he did everything, and opened his arms as the three, Margaret and her children, came flying towards him; and they ran into those kind strong arms and nestled there, and looked into his eyes and knew that they were at home.

THE END.



THE

"Queen Hildegarde" Series.

By Laura E. Richards.

HILDEGARDE'S HARVEST.

The fifth volume of the Hildegarde Series. Illustrated with eight full-page cuts. Square 16mo, cloth, $1.25.

A new volume in the "Hildegarde" series, some of the best and most deservedly popular books for girls issued in recent years. This new volume is fully equal to its predecessors in point of interest, and is sure to renew the popularity of the entire series.

HILDEGARDE'S NEIGHBORS.

Fourth volume. Illustrated from original designs. Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman. Square 16mo, cloth, $1.25.

HILDEGARDE'S HOME.

Third volume. Illustrated with original designs by Merrill. Square 16mo, cloth, $1.25.

HILDEGARDE'S HOLIDAY.

Second volume. Illustrated with full-page plates by Copeland. Square 16mo, cloth, $1.25.

QUEEN HILDEGARDE.

First volume. Illustrated from original designs by Garrett (292 pp.). Square 16mo, cloth, $1.25.

"We would like to see the sensible, heroine-loving girl in her early teens who would not like this book. Not to like it would simply argue a screw loose somewhere."—Boston Post.

THE HILDEGARDE SERIES.

as above. 5 vols., square 16mo, put up in a neat box, $6.25.

***Next to Miss Alcott's famous "LITTLE WOMEN" series they easily rank, and no books that have appeared in recent times may be more safely put into the hands of a bright, intelligent girl than these five "Queen Hildegarde" books.

Estes & Lauriat, Publishers, Boston.



Other Books by Laura E. Richards.

LOVE AND ROCKS.

Tall 16mo, handsome cover design, etching frontispiece, $1.00.

A charming story of one of the pleasant islands on the rugged Maine coast, told in the author's most graceful manner.

WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE.

Quarto, cloth, gilt top. Illustrated, $1.25.

A series of papers which has already delighted the many readers of St. Nicholas, now revised and published in book form, with many additions. The title most happily introduces the reader to the charming home life of Dr. Howe and Mrs. Julia Ward Howe during the childhood of the author, and one is young again in reading the delightful sketches of happy child life in this most interesting family.

GLIMPSES OF THE FRENCH COURT.

Sketches from French History. Handsomely illustrated with a series of portraits in etching and photogravure. Square 12mo, cloth, neat cover design, gilt top, $1.50.

SAME.

Handsomely bound in celluloid, boxed, $2.00.

The History of France, during the eighteenth century, is a treasure-house of romantic interest, from which the author has drawn a series of papers which will appeal to all who care for the picturesque in history. With true literary touch, she gives us the story of some of the salient figures of this remarkable period.

Estes & Lauriat, Publishers, Boston.

* * * * *

Transcriber's Notes:

Obvious punctuation errors repaired.

Page 125, word "the" was inserted into the text (out of the window)

Page 188, "year" changed to "years" (for thirty years)

Page 226, "bother" changed to "bother" (want to bother her)

Page 268, "scimetar" changed to "scimitar" (a scimitar in a)

The asterism on used on the second to the last advertising page was changed to *** for this text version.

THE END