Dimpling with pleasure, her rosy face beaming, Peggy began to read.

"'Dear old'—oh, well, I won't read just the beginning, because it is just the way we talk to each other, you know. I wish you knew Jean, Snowy. Let me see! oh, yes, here it is.

"'This is eight birthdays all at once, for what do you think, Peggy? this morning we missed Semmy at breakfast, and could not find her anywhere. There were kidneys, and you know she always finishes the dish off, because she is so fond of them. Well, and so I went to look for her, and she wasn't in her box, or in the shed, or behind the kitchen stove, or anywhere where she usually is. So I went out to the stable, and there I heard little squeaks and squeals, the funniest you ever heard, and then a growl in Semmy's voice as I opened the door. Then the dear thing heard my step, and was ashamed of growling, and began thumping her tail on the floor till I should have thought she would break it. And there she was, all cuddled down in a pile of hay, and the dear little darling things all cuddled round her. I never saw anything so perfectly dear! they were all blind, and bald all over, and pink, and squealing like anything; you never did see anything so lovely in all your life, at least I never did. Well, she let me take them up, one by one, old darling, though I could see that it made her nervous. Most of them are like her, beautifully marked, with pink noses, and black ears, and just the right blackness and tanness on them; but one is very queer, great splotches of black on his nose and his hind quarters, and all the rest of him white. So they named him "Magpie," right off; but I haven't come to the names yet. He is not very pretty, but he looks very bright, and I shouldn't wonder if he was terribly clever, to make up for not being so handsome as the others. And the other different one is a perfect beauty, though you may not think so when I tell you that he is blue. Yes, truly blue; of course I don't mean sky blue, nor navy, but the black is all mixed in through the white,—I can't explain to you just how it is—but anyhow, at a little distance, he does truly and honestly look blue. Well, so—I was the first to find them, so Father said I might name them, but of course I wanted us all to do it together; so we all thought, and each made a list. Oh, Peggy, we did want you; and I wanted to wait till you could send your list too, but the others thought you would not mind, and it is nicer to have them named quickly, because then their names seem to belong to them more, and they look like them. Perhaps, I mean, if you had been called something else till you were two or three years old, you might not have been so just exactly Peggy as you are, you dear old thing.'

"Perhaps I ought not to have read that," said Peggy, looking up with a blush; "but it is as like Jean as I am like Peggy, if I am like it, whatever it is."

"You certainly are like 'it,'" said Gertrude, laughing, "and 'it' certainly is a dear old thing. Go on, please. We are all longing to hear the list."

Peggy threw her a kiss, and went on.

"'I will not give you all the lists, for that would take up all the rest of my letter; but here is the one we finally made out. There are three females, and five males, you know: Cleopatra, Meg (Merrilies; that was Flora's, because she is just reading "Guy Mannering"), Diana, Guy (for the same reason), Shot, Hector, Ajax, and Magpie.'

"Well, I do think that is a queer list," Peggy concluded, folding up the letter. "I wish they had called one 'Gray Brother,' or 'Bagheera.'"

"But they are not wolves or panthers," objected Mr. Merryweather. "I should say that was a very fair list of names, Peggy, as names go. It is always hard to find a good name for a dog. 'Shot' is an excellent name. We had a good old dog named Shot, and I have always liked the name."

"Mammy," said Bell, "are we not to hear something from you?"

"From me, my dear?" repeated Mrs. Merryweather. "What would you like to hear?"

"I should think you were an amiable gramophone," replied her daughter, with affectionate disrespect. "And I think you really know what I mean, madam, in spite of that innocent look. On reading your letters, you and Jerry exclaimed: 'Well, well!' and 'Sapolio!' at the same instant, and your letters are on the same kind of paper, I cannot help seeing that. Have you something to break to us? 'Sapolio' is a baleful utterance, delivered as Jerry delivered it just now."

"Gee! I should think it was!" muttered Gerald, gloomily. He had brightened up while Peggy was reading her letter, but now his usually bright face was clouded with unmistakable vexation.

"Oh!" said Mrs. Merryweather, with what seemed a rather elaborately cheerful expression. "My letter? It is from Cousin Anna Belleville. She tells me that Claud has been with her at Bar Harbor for some time, and that he is coming to visit us on his way back. He will be here some day next week, she thinks."

A certain pensiveness stole over the aspect of the Merryweathers. Bell and Gertrude exchanged a swift glance, but said nothing. Gerald whistled, "Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket!"

After a brief silence, Mr. Merryweather said, thoughtfully, "I was thinking of taking the boys off on a camping trip next week."

"You cannot, Miles," said his wife, quickly. "It is out of the question."

"Oh, certainly," said Mr. Merryweather. "I only—a—quite so!"

He relapsed into inarticulate murmurs over his pipe. Mrs. Merryweather, after a reproachful glance at him, turned to Gerald, as she folded her letter. "You have a letter from Claud, Gerald?" she asked, cheerfully.

"I have, madam," said Gerald, with a brow of thunder. "He informs me that he is looking forward with the greatest pleasure to roughing it a bit with us, and says that we must make no preparations, but let him take things just as they are. He's a Christian soul, that's what he is."

"What is to be the order of the evening?" asked Mrs. Merryweather, addressing Bell with a shade of warning in her voice. "Are we to have games, or boat-building?"

"Oh! boat-building! the regatta is to-morrow, and we are not half ready."

There was a general rush toward cupboards and lockers, and in an incredibly short space of time the whole room was a pleasant litter of chips, shingles, and brown paper. The rules for the regattas at Merryweather were few and simple. All boats must be built by their owners, unaided; no boat must be over a foot long from stem to stern; all sails must be of paper. Aside from these limitations, the fancies of the campers might roam at will; accordingly, the boats were of every shape and description, from Kitty's shingle, ballasted with pebbles, to Phil's elaborate catamaran. Peggy was struggling with a stout and somewhat "nubbly" piece of wood, which was slowly shaping itself under the vigorous strokes of her jack-knife.

"She's coming on!" Peggy declared, cheerfully. "She really begins to look quite like a boat now, doesn't she, Mr. Merryweather?"

"Certainly!" the Chief assented. "I don't see why she should not make a very good boat, Peggy. I would round off her stern a bit, if I were you. So! that's better."

"What is her name, Peggy?" inquired Mrs. Merryweather. "I must be entering the names in the Log."

"The Lovely Peggy, of course!" said Phil. "What else should it be?"

"It might be the Limavaddy!" said Gerald.

"Gerald, I wish you would tell me what you mean by 'Limavaddy,'" said Peggy. "It sounds like—I don't know what; tea-caddy, or something like that. Mrs. Merryweather, won't you tell me what it means?"

"It is a compliment he is paying you, Peggy," said her hostess, smiling. "Peg of Limavaddy is the charming heroine of a charming ballad of Thackeray's.

"'This I do declare, Happy is the laddy Who the heart can share Of Peg of Limavaddy. Married if she were, Blest would be the daddy Of the children fair Of Peg of Limavaddy. Beauty is not rare In the land of Paddy, Fair beyond compare Is Peg of Limavaddy.'

That is not one of the prettiest stanzas, but it shows you why Gerald has nicknamed you."

"I say with Captain Corcoran," Gerald observed, pausing in the critical adjustment of a sail:

"'Though I'm anything but clever, I could talk like that forever.'

As thus!

"When she makes the tea, Brews it from a caddy, Who so blithe as she, Peg of Limavaddy?

"See her o'er the stove, Broiling of a haddie; Thus she won my love, Peg of Limavaddy.

"But building of a boat, Her success is shady; Bet you she won't float, Peg of Limavaddy!"

"Wait till to-morrow," cried Peggy, laughing, "and you'll see whether she floats or not. And anyhow, she is my first boat. Isn't there a special class for beginners, Mr. Merryweather?"

"No, no! no fear or favor shown; the rigor of the game, little Peggy. Margaret, have you given up?"

"Oh, yes, please, Mr. Merryweather!" said Margaret, looking up from her knitting with a smile. "I could not; it simply was not possible. Gerald was positive at first that he could teach me, but after one lesson he was equally positive that he could not. I needed no conviction, because I knew I could not."

"Nobody can do absolutely everything," said Gerald, "except the Codger,—I allude to my revered uncle, Margaret,—and I have at times desired to drown him for that qualification. You shall be the starter, Margaret; you'll do that to perfection."

"What are the duties of a starter?" asked Margaret; "I shall be very glad to do anything I really can."

"To sit still and look pretty!" said Gerald, demurely. "I think you can manage it."

"Have I the full list?" asked Mrs. Merryweather. "I'll read it aloud.

"The Principal Whale,—Papa."

"I wish you would not call my father names!" murmured Gerald.

"Jerry, do be still!

"The Tintinnabula, Bell.

"The Jollycumpop, Gertrude.

"The Come-at-a-Body, Gerald.

"The Molasses Cooky, Phil.

"The Polly Cologne, Kitty.

"The Whopper, Willy."

"Is that all?"

"All but Peggy's," said Gertrude. "Peggy, you must decide on the name of your boat."

"Oh! Gertrude, that is the hardest part of all. Margaret, you must name her for me."

"Why not Semiramis, after the happy mother of the puppies?" suggested Margaret.

"The whole puppies!" echoed Gerald. "Don't half name them, Margaret!"

"Why isn't that the name for the boat?" cried Phil.

"It is! it is!" cried all the rest. "The Whole Puppy, it is!" And Peggy laughing, submitted.

"I never was so teased in all my life!" she said; "but I feel it doing me good."

"That is our one object, my charming child!" said Gerald, gravely. "We invited you here in the hope that our united efforts might counteract the pernicious influences of Fernley House."

"Nobody will ever explain to me what a Come-at-a-Body is!" said Margaret. "Whenever I ask, you all say, 'Oh, hush! it might come!' Mrs. Merryweather, won't you tell me?"

"I will read you the description of it in the Log," said Mrs. Merryweather, smiling; "that is the best I can do for you."

She turned over the pages of the book that lay open in her lap. "Here it is!" she said. "Now mark and learn, Margaret.

"'The Come-at-a-Body is found only in its native habitat, where it may be observed at the proper season, indulging in the peculiar actions that characterize it. It has more arms than legs, and more hair than either. It moves with great rapidity, its gait being something between a wallop and a waddle; and as it comes (one of its peculiarities is that it always comes, and never goes), it utters loud screams, and gnashes its teeth in time with its movements.'

"Now, my dear, you know all that I do!" Mrs. Merryweather concluded with a candid smile.

"Thank you so much!" said Margaret, laughing. "I am certainly enlightened."

At this moment Phil, who was sitting near the door, laid down his work, and held up a warning hand. "Hark!" he said. "What is that?"

"Only the wind!" said some one.

"Or the car rattling o'er the stony street!" said another.

"No!" said Phil. "I heard a voice, I am sure. Listen!"

All were silent. Outside the rain was pouring, the wind wailing in long sighing gusts; but—yes! mingling with the wind, a voice was certainly calling:

"Hallo! hallo, there! Merryweather!"

Gerald sprang to his feet, and struck his twin brother on the shoulder. "The Philistines are upon thee, Samson!" he cried. "I should know that voice in the shock of spears: it is Claud Belleville!"



CHAPTER IX.

MR. BELLEVILLE



THE Montforts and Jack Ferrers looked up with much curiosity and some apprehension as the twins returned ushering in the unexpected visitor. Mr. and Mrs. Merryweather and the girls welcomed him cordially, but Margaret could not help contrasting their somewhat subdued cheerfulness with the joyous outburst that had welcomed herself and Peggy on their arrival.

Mr. Claud Belleville was a tall, pallid youth, with blond hair carefully arranged, pale blue eyes, in one of which an eyeglass was neatly fitted, and a languid air. He spoke with a pronounced English accent, and, on being presented to the other guests, said "Oh! very, very, very!" in a most affable tone.

The Merryweathers bestirred themselves, some bringing dry garments, some preparing a hasty meal; the guest meanwhile stood in the centre of the hearthstone, and adjured them not to put themselves to inconvenience.

"Now, my dear people, I beg of you!" he said. "Nothing, positively nothing, but a biscuit and a cup of tea! Really, now, I cannot allow it. Thanks, Jerry! awfully good of you, don't you know! oh! very, very, very! now, my dear fellow, not your best coat! It is too absurd."

"It isn't my best, it's my worst!" said Gerald, bluntly.

"Oh! very good! very diverting! thanks awfully! don't mention it. Well, Cousin Miranda, this is charming; this is positively charming. So delightfully primitive, don't you know! oh, very, very, very! I told my people that before I went back to Paris I must positively look you up. It is such an age since I have seen any of you. My little cousins are all grown up into young ladies, and such charming young ladies: I congratulate you, Cousin, de tout mon coeur!"

"Thank you, Claud!" said Mrs. Merryweather, quietly. "I trust your mother is quite well? I only received her note, and Gerald yours, to-day. She spoke of your coming next week; if we had known that you were coming to-night, we would have sent to the station for you."

"Ah, yes; I knew that!" said Mr. Belleville. "I know your hospitality never fails, Cousin Miranda. But you know me, too—a butterfly—here to-day, gone to-morrow! A summons from the Dunderblincks—races going on at their place, don't you know; midsummer fetes, that sort of thing—changed my plans. Mamma said, 'You will have to give up the Camp, Cheri!' 'No!' I said. 'They expect me; I have passed my word, it is all I have. I go to the Camp to-day.' I came—I saw—I dare not say I conquered!" Here he bowed, and threw a killing glance at Gertrude, who was passing at the moment, carrying the teapot.

"Can this be the little Gertrude?" he added, addressing her, and lowering his voice to a sentimental half-tone. "She has not forgotten Cousin Claud?"

"Certainly not, Claud!" replied Gertrude, smiling. "It is only three years since you were with us at home for two or three weeks. I remember you perfectly."

"Only three years!" murmured Mr. Belleville. "Is it possible? but what momentous years! The change from the petite fille, the charming child, to the woman, the—but I must not say too much!"

"You'll burn your bloom—your boots, if you stand so near the fire!" said Gerald, in a growl so threatening that Margaret looked up startled.

"Your boots, dear fellow!" Mr. Belleville corrected him. "Right! I am a little near the cheerful blaze. I am a fire-worshipper, you know; oh, very, very, very!"

"Boys, you'd better see to the boats before you go to bed!" said Mr. Merryweather, speaking for the first time since his greeting of the newcomer.

"All right, sir!" said the twins, rising with alacrity. "Jack, will you come along?"

"Always thoughtful, Cousin Miles!" said Mr. Belleville. "Always the prop of the family! so unchanged!"

Mr. Merryweather's reply was inarticulate, and its tone caused his wife to begin hastily a series of inquiries for the visitor's family.

The twins and Jack Ferrers walked slowly down the slip in the rain. No one spoke till they reached the float; then Gerald said slowly: "Sapolio—Saccarappa—Sarcophagus—Squedunk!"

"Feel better?" asked his brother, sympathetically.

"There is one thing," said Gerald, still speaking slowly and emphatically, "that I wish, in this connection, distinctly understood. Indoors he is safe: hospitality—salt—Arabs—that kind of thing. But if in the immediate proximity of the cleansing flood"—he waved his hand toward the lake—"he continues to patronize the parents, in he goes! I have spoken!"

"I should not presume to restrain my half-hour elder!" said Phil. "Jack, I'm afraid we shall have to put this curled darling in your tent. It's only for the night, fortunately."

"Oh! of course! delighted!" said Jack, somewhat embarrassed.

"Very, very, very, eh?" said Phil. "Oh! what's the use of making believe, with any one we know so well as you? It's a nuisance, and we don't pretend it isn't."

"Mark my words, John Ferrers!" broke in Gerald. "We mean to be civil to this youth. He is our second cousin, and we know it. He is also a blooming, blossoming, burgeoning Ass, and he doesn't know it. They seldom do. We mean, I say, to be civil to him, barring patronage of the parents. He has been our thorn, and we have borne him—at intervals, mercifully not too short—all our lives. But we aren't going to pretend that we love him, because we don't. No more doesn't he love us.

"The love that's lost between us Is not the love for me; But there's a flood both fair and broad, In which I'd duck my charming Claud As gladly as could be!"

. . . . . . .

"Are you ready?" asked the Chief.

"Oh! no, Pater! not just yet. My rudder has got fouled with the cargo."

"Somebody lend me a safety-pin, please! my mainsail is coming loose."

"Has anybody got any ballast to spare? just one pebble!"

These cries and many others resounded from the float, where the campers were gathered, and were putting the last touches to their toy boats. Finally Mr. Merryweather declared that there should be no more delay. The boats were carefully placed in the Ark, a great white rowboat manned by the Chief and Phil, who proceeded to row out leisurely to a white-flagged buoy at some distance from the shore. Gerald and Jack in one canoe, Gertrude and Peggy in another, were stationed at either side of the course; while Margaret and Claud Belleville, in a Rangeley boat, were so placed as to take the time of the various boats as they came in. This arrangement was not satisfactory to all the campers, but when protests were made in the family council the night before, Mr. Merryweather had calmly remarked that it was impossible to please everybody, and that the visitors should be given the post of honor. Gerald muttered that he did not see why Margaret should be butchered to make a Claudian holiday; to which his father replied that the matter was settled, and perhaps he, Gerald, would better be seeing to the lanterns.

"Aren't you a little hard on the boy?" asked Mrs. Merryweather, when she and her husband were left alone together.

"He needs something to bite on!" was the reply. "He is going through a kind of moral teething."

This regatta was the first that Margaret had ever seen, and she was greatly excited.

"Tell us when we are just right!" she cried to the Chief as she passed the Ark. "Oh! anchor by the red flag? yes, I remember, you told me before. Now, Mr. Belleville, will you throw out the anchor, please?"

"Must I?" rejoined Mr. Belleville. "It seems a pity! So charming to row about a bit, don't you think? oh! well, if you insist!"—as he met Margaret's horrified gaze. "Here goes!"

The anchor splashed overboard, and the young man laid down his oars.

"You take this au grand serieux, I see, Miss Montfort, like my good cousins themselves. I confess I never can attain their perennial youthfulness, try how I will. I feel a Methuselah, I give you my word I do. Oh! very, very, very!"

"I don't understand you," said Margaret, simply. "We are here to take the time, as the boats pass the line. There is no other object in our being here."

"No other? Alas! poor Claud!" sighed Mr. Belleville. "Now, to me, Miss Montfort, the sailing of toy boats is the smallest possible factor in this afternoon's pleasure. It is not, believe me, the childish sport that I shall remember when I am far away."

"Oh!" said Margaret, vaguely, her eyes on the white boat.

"You do not ask what it is that I shall carry with me across the ocean?" Claud's voice dropped to its favorite smooth half-tone, what he was fond of describing to his friends as "ma mi-voix caressante."

"There is a glamour, Miss Montfort, a magic, that does not always put itself into words. The perfect day, the perfect vision, will dwell with me—"

"Oh, look!" cried Margaret, starting forward, eagerly, "they are giving the signal. Gerald repeats it. Oh, they are off! Look, look, Mr. Belleville! What a pretty sight."

It was, indeed, a pretty sight. The fairy fleet started in line, their white and brown sails taking the breeze gallantly, their prows (where they had prows) dancing over the dancing ripples. One or two proved unruly, turning round and round, and in one case finally turning bottom side up, with hardly a struggle. But most of the little vessels kept fairly well within the course, heading, more or less, for the shore.

Margaret was enchanted.

"How wonderfully they keep together!" she said. "Oh! but now they begin to separate. Look, there is a poor little one wobbling off all by itself. I wonder—I am afraid it is Peggy's. Yes, I am sure it is. Poor Peggy! Oh! the first three are going much faster than the rest. I wonder whose they are. How prettily they sail! Did you ever see anything prettier?"

"I see something infinitely prettier," said Mr. Belleville, fixing his eyes on his companion. But Margaret, wholly unconscious of his languishing gaze, was watching the race with an intensity of eagerness that left no room for any other impressions.

The three forward boats came on swiftly, their prows dipping lightly, their paper sails spread full to the breeze. Shouts came ringing over the water, from the other boats, and from the shore, where the rest of the campers were gathered in an excited knot.

"Jollycumpop!"

"Come-at-a-Body!"

"Good work, Jolly! Keep it up!"

"The Whale is gaining. Hit her up, Spermaceti!"

"Jollycumpop has it! Jollycumpop!"

"The Jolly is first," cried Margaret; "but the Come-at-a-Body is very, very close. Which do you think will win, Mr. Belleville?"

"Which do you wish to win?" asked Mr. Belleville.

"Oh, how can I tell? One is Gertrude's, the other Gerald's."

"There can be little doubt in that case, I imagine," said Claud Belleville, with a peculiar smile. "As a matter of simple gallantry—dear me, how unfortunate!"

As he spoke, his oar slipped from his hand, and fell with a splash into the water. The Come-at-a-Body was nearest to the Rangeley boat. The oar did not absolutely touch the tiny vessel, but the shock of the disturbed water was enough to check her gallant progress. She paused,—wavered,—finally recovered herself, and went bravely on. But in that pause the Jollycumpop crossed the line triumphantly, amid loud acclamations.

"The little Gertrude wins!" exclaimed Mr. Belleville, recovering his oar with graceful composure. "We can hardly regret an accident which contributes even slightly to give the victory where it so manifestly belongs, can we, Miss Montfort?"

But Margaret Montfort turned upon him, her fair face flushed with anger, her gentle eyes full of fire.

"Mr. Belleville, you dropped that oar on purpose!" she said, quietly.

"How can you suspect me of such a thing?" replied Mr. Belleville, laughing. "But, quand meme! would it have been wholly unjustifiable if I had done so?"

"Wholly, to my mind!" said Margaret. "In fact, I cannot imagine such a thing being done by any one who—" she checked herself.

"By any one who is related to these dear people?" said Mr. Belleville, lightly. "Ah! Miss Montfort, a bond of blood does not always mean a bond of sympathy. These dear people bore me, and I bore them. Believe me, it is reciprocal. But do you yourself never tire of this everlasting childishness, these jeux d'enfance, on the part of persons who, after all, are mostly beyond the nursery?"

"I do not!" said Margaret, concisely. "If you will take in the anchor, Mr. Belleville, I think I should like to go ashore, if you please."

"I have offended you!" cried Claud Belleville. "You, to whom from the first instant I have felt so irresistibly drawn. I am unfortunate, indeed. But you cannot be seriously angry. Give me a chance to redeem myself, I implore you, Miss Montfort. See what a charming little cove opens yonder, just opposite. Delightful to drift and dream for an hour, in the company of one who understands—oh, very, very, very."

"I do not understand," said Margaret, "and I have no desire to do so, Mr. Belleville. I beg you to take me ashore at once,—this moment."

"And if I were bold enough to delay obedience for a few moments? If I felt confident that I could overcome this stern—"

"Gertrude," called Margaret, as the owner of the victorious Jollycumpop passed them with a triumphant greeting, "can you give us a tow?"

"Certainly," said Gertrude. "Anything wrong?"

"On the contrary, dear cousin," said Claud, "I challenge you to a race."

And with a glance at Margaret, half reproachful, half mocking, he bent to his oars, with the first sign of energy he had shown since his arrival.



CHAPTER X.

PUPPY PLAY

"BELL, may I speak to you a moment?" said Margaret.

Bell looked up from a critical inspection of the Tintinnabula, which had been somewhat injured in the race. "Certainly, May Margaret!" she said. "Do you want to know why my poor boatie did not win? I have just found out." Then, looking up, and seeing Margaret's disturbed face, she rose instantly.

"Something is wrong?" she said, quickly. "Come this way, under the trees, where it is quiet. You have had no bad news, dear?"

"Oh, no!" said Margaret. "But—Bell, I have something very disagreeable to tell you. It seems terrible to say anything that may make trouble, but nothing makes so much trouble as untruth, and I do think you ought to know this. I don't think the Jollycumpop really won the race!"

"My dear Margaret! she came in well ahead; didn't you see—"

"Listen, Bell!" and Margaret told in a few words the story of the dropped oar.

Bell listened with keen attention, and when Margaret had finished, whistled two bars of the Siegfried motif very correctly before she spoke.

"The little animal!" she said at last. "Well, Margaret, do you know, the best thing to do, in my opinion, is—to say nothing about it, at present."

"But—Bell! Gerald really won!"

"I know! but, even as it is, Jerry can hardly keep his hands off Claud. My one prayer is that we may be able to get the boy off to-morrow without an open quarrel breaking out. You see, Margaret, when they were little, it was all right for Jerry to thrash him. He did it punctually and thoroughly, every time they met, and it was very good for the boy; but now of course it is out of the question."

"Why did he come here?" inquired Margaret. "Did ever any one manage to make so much trouble in so short a time? the very air seems changed."

Bell shrugged her shoulders. "His mother made him come, probably," she said. "He is really devoted to his mother; when you see him with her, you forgive a great deal. She is very fond of my father, and is always hoping that he may be able to influence Claud, and to appreciate him. After all, the boy has no father, and he has been systematically spoiled ever since he was born. I wish to-morrow were over."

"Then," said Margaret, slowly, "I am to say nothing about this matter."

"Please not!" said her friend. "My dear, I see you are troubled, because you saw the horrid thing done; and you don't think it right to conceal the truth, even for a time. I am just as angry as you, but remember, there is 'a time to speak and a time to be silent.' This is a time to be silent, I am very sure; if we were to tell the boys now, it would be a match thrown into a powder-magazine. To-morrow, when Claud is safely off to his Dunderblincks, we will tell them; there will be an explosion then, but it will do no harm; and in a day or two the two boats can have a race by themselves, and that will decide the case. Are you convinced, Justitia?"

"Entirely!" said Margaret. "You are very wise, Bell; I suppose I was too angry to see clearly; I have never been so angry in my life. As you say, I suppose it is because I saw it; and it was a horrid thing to see. I too wish to-morrow were over."

* * * * *

The morrow came, and the morning passed peacefully enough. The wagon was ordered which was to carry the visitor to the evening train. The elders began to breathe freely, and it was with a mind comparatively at rest that Mr. Merryweather strolled down to the float after dinner, to inspect a boat which had been hauled up for repairs. The other "menfolks" of the family followed him, and all stood round after the fashion of their kind, saying little, but enjoying themselves in their own way.

"I'd caulk her a bit, Jerry," said the Chief; "and then give her a couple of coats of shellac. She'll do then for the rest of the season."

"All right, Pater!" said Jerry.

"And if it be possible," his father went on, "so far as in you lies, do not spill the shellac about. Shellac is an excellent thing in its place, but I don't like it on the seat of my chair, where I found it this morning, nor sprinkled over the new 'Century,' as it was last night. And it isn't as if there were any to spare; the can is very low."

"I know!" said Gerald, penitently. "I am awfully sorry, Pater. I threw a cushion at Fergs, and it upset the can. I scraped up as much as I could; I think there is enough left for this job. If not, would that varnish do?"

"Varnish—" said Mr. Merryweather; and he plunged into a dissertation upon the abominations of most varnishes and the iniquities of their makers. Gerald replied, defending certain kinds for certain purposes; the others chimed in, and a heated discussion was going on, when Claud Belleville joined the party. In spotless gray tweeds, with a white Manila hat and a lavender necktie, he made a singular contrast to the campers in their flannel shirts and dingy corduroys.

At his appearance, Gerald rose from his squatting posture at the stern of the boat, while Phil and Jack amiably made way for the newcomer at the edge of the wharf, where, for some unexplained reason, men always like to stand. Claud, finding himself between Gerald and his father, turned toward the latter with an air of cheerful benevolence.

"Cousin Miles," he said, "you must promise me, you really must, to come to us at Bar Harbor before the end of the summer. I gave my word to Mamma that I would induce you to come. She longs to see you."

"I should like very much to see her," said Mr. Merryweather. "We were always very good friends, your mother and I. Give her my love, and tell her that some time when she is in New York I shall run on to see her; possibly this autumn, before you sail. It would not be possible for me to leave here now."

"Oh, but yes!" cried Mr. Belleville, airily. "It could be possible, Cousin Miles. Here are the boys, absolutely au fait in bog-trotting of every description; in fact, suited to the life—in all its aspects." He swept Gerald with a comprehensive glance, from his mop of red hair, tanned into rust-color, to his feet, clad in superannuated "sneakers."

"They can do all the honors of the place as they should be done," he added. "But you, Cousin Miles, you must positively come to Bar Harbor. You live too much the life of the fields. Mamma is constantly deploring it. We will show you a little life, Mamma and I. I will put you up at my Club, and take you out in my new auto; in a week, you will not know yourself, I give you my word. Oh, very, very, very!"

As the speaker stood beaming benevolence at Mr. Merryweather, and diffusing contempt among the rest of the party, two hands were laid on his shoulders; hands which gripped like steel, and propelled him forward with irresistible force. He staggered, struggled to save himself—and the next instant disappeared with a loud splash beneath the water.

Gerald confronted his father with a face of white fire.

"I told him, sir, plainly and distinctly, that if he patronized you I should duck him!" he said. "He has had fair warning: this has gone on long enough."

"Gerald," said Mr. Merryweather, gravely, "you are behaving like a foolish and ill-tempered child. I am fully able to take care of myself. We will talk of this later. Meantime you will apologize to your cousin."

"Oh, certainly, sir! I intended to, of course."

While this brief colloquy had been going on, Phil and Jack, with sparkling eyes, waited at the edge of the wharf for the reappearance of Mr. Belleville. Up he came presently, splashing and sputtering, his eyes flashing angry sparks. Phil held out a hand; a vigorous pull, a scramble, and he stood once more on the wharf. Gerald walked up to him at once. "I beg your pardon, Claud!" he said. "I had no business to do it, and I apologize."

Claud gave a spiteful laugh, and shook himself in his cousin's direction, spattering him with drops. "Don't mention it, dear fellow!" he said, through his chattering teeth. "It serves me right for expecting civilized manners in the backwoods. This no doubt appears to you an exquisite pleasantry, and its delicacy will be appreciated, no doubt, by others of your circle. Enfin, in the presence of your father, whom I respect, I can but accept your apology. Since you are sorry—"

"I did not say I was sorry!" Gerald broke in. "I said I begged your pardon."

"My son, will you go at once and attend to the fire?" said Mr. Merryweather.

"Father—"

"At once!" repeated Mr. Merryweather.

Gerald went.

"Phil, take your cousin in, and get him some dry clothes. His own will be dry before the wagon comes, if you hang them by the kitchen stove. Hurry now!"

Phil and Claud went off in surly silence, and Mr. Merryweather turned to Jack Ferrers, who had remained an amused but somewhat embarrassed spectator of the scene.

"Puppy play, Jack!" he said, quietly. "You have seen plenty of it in Germany. One puppy is a puppy, more's the pity, and the other has red hair. Well! well! I did hope this could have been avoided; but we must not let it go any further. I wish Roger were here. I wonder if you can help me out, Jack."

"I'll do my best, sir!" said Jack, heartily.

"You see, I must go off; I ought to be at the village landing this moment, to see about that freight that is coming. Do you think you can keep the peace till I come back?"

"I think I can," said Jack. "I'll make a good try for it, anyhow, Mr. Merryweather."

"That's a good lad!" said the Chief. "You could knock both their heads together, if you put your mind—and your biceps—to it; but I hope that will not be necessary. In any case, don't let them fight! I promised his mother."

He nodded, and, settling himself in a boat, departed with long, powerful strokes.

Jack, left alone, shook his curly head, and felt of his arms.

"Ah'm fit!" he said, quoting another and a bigger Jock than himself. "But it's a pity. That fellow is not only a puppy, he is a cur. I never saw anybody who needed a thrashing more." And he went and coiled himself in a hammock, and prepared to keep watch.

An hour later Mr. Claud Belleville, once more dry, if somewhat shorn of his glory, reappeared upon the scene. As he came out of his tent, Gerald strolled carelessly out of the boat-house, his hands in his pockets.

"Cousin Rowdy, a word with you, if you please!" said Claud.

"Cousin Cad, two, if you like!" said Gerald.

"In France, where I live," Mr. Belleville resumed, "when we are insulted, we fight."

"No! do you really?" cried Gerald, his eyes sparkling as he began eagerly to turn back his cuffs. "Hooray! I say, shake hands, Claud. I didn't think you had it in you. There's a bully place up behind the woodshed. Come on!"

Claud Belleville, who really was no coward, started forward readily: but at this moment Destiny intervened, in the shape of six foot four of John Ferrers. Uncoiling his length from the hammock, he took two strides forward, and lifting Gerald in his arms as if he were an infant, carried him off bodily. Gerald, who was strong and agile as a young panther, fought and struggled, pouring out a torrent of angry protest; but in vain. When Jack put forth his full strength, there was no possibility of resistance. He bore the furious lad to his tent, and throwing him on the cot, deliberately sat down on his feet, in calm and cheerful silence. Gerald twisted and writhed, exhausted himself in struggles, threats, prayers; all in vain! Jack sat like a statue. Finally the boy relapsed into sullen silence, and lay panting, his hand clenched, his blue eyes dark with anger and chagrin.

By and by came the sound of wheels; a wagon stopped in front of the camp. There were sounds of leave-taking; "Good-by, Claud!" "Our love to your mother!" in various tones and modulations; then the sound of wheels once more, rattling up the hill and away in the distance. Then Jack Ferrers rose, and smiled down on his prostrate friend.

"Awfully sorry, old man!" he said.

Gerald was silent.

"Jerry! you're not going to cut up rough?"

"I have nothing to say," said Gerald, coldly.

"You are my guest, and manners forbid. We will change the subject, if you please."

"Manners didn't forbid your chucking the Charmer into the drink!" said Jack. "Ho! did you see him blink when he came up? It was worth while, Jerry, even if I have to fight you, but I don't believe I shall. You see, your father had to go off, and he asked me to keep the peace, and I said I would; and I didn't see any other way, wildcat that you are. A sweet condition the Charmer would have been in to go back to his Mamma, if I had not done as I did!"

"I might have known the Pater was at the bottom of it!" said Gerald, his face lightening, and his voice taking on its own kindly ring. "Fine man; but the extent to which he won't let me thrash Claud is simply disgusting. When it comes to setting a Megatherium on a man—"

"And to the Megatherium sitting on the man—" said Jack, laughing.

"No more o' that, Jack, if thou love me! There's the horn! Come on, and let that flint-hearted parent see that we are all right."

The pair strolled in to supper, arm in arm, singing, to the tune of "Home, Sweet Home!"

"Claud, Claud, sweet, sweet Claud! There's no ass like Claud, There is no ass like Claud!"

and were promptly silenced by Mrs. Merryweather.



CHAPTER XI.

MRS. MERRYWEATHER'S VIGIL

MRS. MERRYWEATHER had had a busy day. There had been a picnic at Oak Island, which had taken all the morning and a good part of the afternoon; then there had been a dozen letters to write for the late mail; and finally she had taken Kitty's turn with Willy at getting supper, as Kitty had a headache. The sisters protested, each one claiming her right to take the extra duty; but Mrs. Merryweather had her own reasons for being glad of the hour of play-work with her little boy. Willy had been rather out of spirits, which meant that he, as well as his sister, had eaten too many huckleberries; this afternoon he had been decidedly cross, and required treatment.

Coming into the kitchen at five o'clock, she found the fire lighted, and the kettle on, for Willy was a faithful soul; but he was frowning heavily over his chopping-tray.

"I wish mince-meat had never been invented!" he said, gloomily.

"Do you?" said his mother. "I don't! I am glad it was, even if I did not have three helps last night."

"I was so hungry, I had to eat something," said Willy, in an injured tone. "When I grow up, I mean to have beefsteak every day, and never have anything made over at all."

"I'll remember that, the next time we have brown-bread brewis!" said his mother smiling.

"Oh! that's different!" said Willy.

"Most things are different," said Mrs. Merryweather, "if you look at them in a different way. Is that ready, son?"

"As ready as it is ever going to be. I've chopped till my arm is almost broken."

"So I see! It looks as if you had cracked it. Well, now, it isn't time yet to make the rolls, so we can take breath a bit. Come out on the porch, and let us play something till the kettle boils."

"I don't feel like playing!" said Willy, dolefully; "I don't feel like doing anything, Mammy."

Mrs. Merryweather looked at him a moment; then taking his hands in hers, she said suddenly, "'For heaven's sake let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings!' That is a passage from Richard II., and it seems to fit the occasion. Sit down, Willy; right here on the floor by me; I'll begin. Two minutes for composition!"

She was silent, looking out over the water, while Willy glanced sidewise at her, half-interested in spite of himself.

"I have it!" she said, presently.

"King John put on such frightful airs, He met his death by eating pears.

"Your turn, Willy! two minutes!"

"Oh, Mammy, I can't play!"

"But you are playing. Only one minute more."

"Well, then—does it have to be the real way they died? because I don't know."

"No! facts not required in this game."

"Well, then—

"King Og Was lost in a bog."

"Your metre is faulty," said his mother, thoughtfully, "but the statement is interesting. My turn; you shall hold the watch for me."

"Time's up!" cried Willy, beginning to kindle.

"Oh! is it? What short minutes! Let me see!

"King Xerxes Was killed by Turkses."



"Oh! I wanted Xerxes. Wait, Mammy. I have one!

"King David Could not be saved!"

"Good!" cried his mother. "That is the best yet. But we might branch out a little, I think, Willy. This condensed couplet is forcible, but not very graceful. How do you like this?

"Tiglath-pileser, Tiglath-pileser, He tried to buy a lemon-squeezer; But no such thing had e'er been seen, So in a melancholy green, Oh, very green, and very yellow, He pined away and died, poor fellow!"

"That is splendid," said Willy, "but you took a little more than two minutes. My turn now!

"The great and mighty Alexander Was bit to death by a salamander."

"Done to death is more poetic!" said his mother.

"Yes, but 'bit' is more savage. I like 'bit.' Your time's up, Mammy!"

"Oh! Willy, I am going to give you a subtle one this time; one in which something is left to the imagination.

"The Emperor Domitian Consulted a physician!"

"But you didn't kill him."

"No, but the physician did."

"Really?"

"No, not really. What do you think of this game?"

"I think it's bully. Did you really just make it up, Mammy?"

"Just! Now the kettle is boiling, and we must come in; but as we go, let me inform you that—

"The Emperor Tiberius He died of something serious; But now we'll stop, And make the pop- Overs before we weary us!"

Willy's gloom was effectually banished, and he continued to slaughter kings till the supper-horn blew.

The effect of this and other mental exercises, added to a cup of tea, was such that when bed-time came, Mrs. Merryweather found herself singularly wide awake. In vain she counted hundreds; in vain she ransacked her memory for saints, kings, and cities alphabetically arranged; in vain she made a list of Johns, beginning with the Baptist and ending with John O'Groats; the second hundred found her wider awake than ever, as she tossed on her narrow cot. Mr. Merryweather, in the opposite cot, was breathing deep and regularly; he was sound asleep, at least, and that was a good thing. Other than this, no sound broke the perfect stillness of the night. The full moon rode high, and lake and woodland were flooded with silver light. A glorious night! Mrs. Merryweather sighed; what was the use of staying in bed on such a night as this, when one could not sleep? If only there were some excuse for getting up!

Suddenly she remembered that, the night being very warm, and the two children apparently entirely recovered from their slight indisposition, they had been allowed to sleep out on the Point, in accordance with a promise made some days ago by their father. She had not been quite willing, but had yielded to pressure, and they had gone out, very happy, with their blankets and the india-rubber floor-cloth.

Mrs. Merryweather sat up in bed. "I ought to go and see if those chicks are all right!" she said. "After all, they certainly were not quite well this afternoon, whatever Miles may say." She glanced half-defiantly at the other cot, but Miles said nothing. She rose quietly, put on wrapper and slippers, and opening noiselessly the screen-door of the tent, slipped out into the open, and stood for a moment looking about her. How beautiful it was! what a wonderful silver world! Sleep was good, but surely, to be awake, on such a night as this, was better.

She stole past the other tents, pausing an instant at the door of each to listen for the regular breathing which is the sweetest music a mother can hear; then she made her way out to the Point, through the sweet tangle of fern and berry-bushes, under the bending trees that dropped dew on her head as she passed.

The Point lay like the prow of some great vessel in a silver sea. One tall pine stood for the mast; under this pine, rolled in scarlet blankets, their rosy faces turned toward the moon, lay the children, sound asleep. Willy had curled one arm under his head, and his other hand was locked in his sister's.

"Dear little things!" murmured their mother. "That means that Kitty-my-pretty was a little bit frightened before she went to sleep. Dear little things!"

She stood there for some time looking down at them.

"The moon is full on their faces!" she said. "My old nurse would tell me that they would be moonstruck 'for sartain sure!' How terrified I used to be, lest a ray of moonlight should shine on my bed, and I should wake a lunatic!"

She glanced up at the moon; looked again, and yet again. "That is very singular!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "Something seems to be happening to the moon."

Something was happening to the moon. It was as if a piece had been bitten out of the shining round. Was it a little cloud? no! no cloud could possibly look like that, so black, so thick, so—"Good gracious!" said Mrs. Merryweather; "it is an eclipse!"

An eclipse it certainly was. Slowly, surely, the black shadow crept, crept, over the silver disk; now a quarter of its surface was hidden; now it went creeping, creeping on toward the half.

"It is going to be a total eclipse!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "I suppose I ought to wake some of them."

She stood a moment more, looking irresolutely at the sleeping children. "I cannot possibly wake them!" she said at last. "Little lambs! they are sleeping so beautifully, and they certainly were not quite themselves this afternoon. Besides, there will be plenty more eclipses; I'll go and wake some of the others."

The black shadow crept on. Hardly less silent, Mrs. Merryweather paused before the tent where her daughters slept. Bell and Gertrude scorned cots, and their mattresses were spread on the floor at night, and rolled up in the daytime. There the two girls lay, still and placid, statue-like, save for the gentle heaving of their quiet breasts. A fair picture for a mother to look on. Miranda Merryweather looked, and drew a happy breath; looked again, and shook her head. "I cannot wake them!" she murmured to herself. "They are both tired after that expedition; Bell paddled very hard on the way back; she was much more flushed than I like to see her, when she came in. And Gertrude sleeps so lightly, I fear she might not get to sleep again if I were to wake her now."

The black shadow crept on; the mother crept into the boys' tent, and stood beside Gerald's cot. The lad lay with his arms flung wide apart; his curly hair was tossed over his broad open forehead; his clear-cut features were set as if in marble.

"He has such a beautiful forehead!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "He sleeps so very sound, that if I were to wake him he might not be able to sleep again. Dear Jerry!"

She moved over to Phil's cot: Phil was uneasy, and as she stopped to straighten the bedclothes, he turned on his side, muttering something that sounded like "Bother breakfast!"

"Poor laddie!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "He looks as if he might have a headache. I wish I had made him take a nice little cup of hot malted milk before he went to bed. It is out of the question to wake him, when he is sleeping so uneasily."

She left the tent, with hardly a glance toward Jack Ferrers, who lay in the farthest cot. The idea of waking him, and having him disturb her own boys, was too preposterous to be entertained for an instant.

The black shadow had crept entirely over the moon; no silver disk now, only a shield of dull bronze; "like some of the Pompeiian bronzes!" Mrs. Merryweather thought. "It is very extraordinary. I suppose I really ought to wake Miles."

She entered her own tent, and stood by her husband's cot. Miles Merryweather was sleeping quite as soundly as any of his children; in fact, he was a very statue of sleep; but his wife laid her hand gently on his shoulder. "Miles!" she said; it must be confessed that she did not speak very loud. "Miles, there is an eclipse!"

Mr. Merryweather did not stir.

"Miles! do you want to wake up?"

No reply; no motion of the long, still form. Mrs. Merryweather breathed more freely. "Miles was more tired to-night than I have seen him all summer!" she said. "He cannot remember that we are not twenty-five any more. It is very bad for a man to get overtired when he is no longer young. Well, I certainly did try to wake him; but such a very sound sleep as this shows how much he needed it. I am sure it is much more important for him to sleep than to see the eclipse; it isn't as if he had not seen plenty of eclipses in his life. Of course, if it had been the sun, it would have been different."

She stood at the door of the tent, watching. Slowly, slowly, the black shadow passed; slowly, slowly, the silver crescent widened to a broad arc, and finally to the perfect argent round; once more the whole world lay bathed in silver light. Mrs. Merryweather gazed on peacefully, and murmured under her breath certain words that she loved:

"'Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, Now the sun is gone to sleep, Seated in thy silver chair, State in wonted measure keep. Hesperus entreats thy light, Goddess excellently bright!'

"But if Roger had been here," said Miranda Merryweather, "I should certainly have waked him, because he is a scientific man, and it would have been only right!"



CHAPTER XII.

"SHOULD AULD ACQUAINTANCE BE FORGOT—"

"A wet sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast—"

PHIL MERRYWEATHER was singing as he brought his boat about. "Slacken your sheet, Peggy! easy—that's right! a half-hitch—look here, young lady! I believe you have been humbugging us all; don't tell me you never sailed a boat before!"

"Never in all my life!" said Peggy, looking up joyously. "I have only dreamed of it and thought about it, ever since I can remember. And I have read the 'Seaman's Friend,' and 'Two Years Before the Mast,' so I do know a little bit about how things ought to go. I think every girl ought to learn how to sail a boat, if she possibly can; but out on the ranch, you see, there really wasn't any chance. We could only make believe, but we used to have great fun doing that."

"How did you make your believe? I should like to hear about it. Ease her off a bit—so—as you are!"

"Why, we made a boat out of the great swing in the barn. It is a huge barn, and the swing is big enough for three elephants to swing on at once; and Hugh fastened hammocks along it lengthwise, and then rigged ropes and pulleys for us, and an old canvas hammock with the ends cut off for a sail; so we swung, and called it sailing, and had storms and shipwrecks, and all kinds of adventures. It was great fun. Oh, I do wish some of you could come out to the ranch some day. If there was only water, it would be the best place in the world—except this and Fernley."

"I'm coming some day!" said Phil. "See if I don't. It must be corking sport, riding about over those great plains."

"Oh! it is!" cried Peggy. "When you come, Phil, you shall ride Monte. He is the most beautiful creature, a Spanish jennet. Jack Del Monte sent him to brother Jim, but he isn't up to Jim's weight, so he lets me ride him. He is like the horses in poetry, that is the only way I can describe him; white as milk, with great dark eyes, and graceful—oh, I do want you to see him. No horse in poetry was ever half so beautiful; in fact, I think I take back what I said; I don't really think poets know much about horses; do you?"

"'Zebra-footed, ostrich-thighed,'" quoted Phil, laughing.

"I know!" said Peggy, indignantly. "Now, the idea, Phil! one thinks of a poor dear horse all over ostrich feathers behind, which is dreadful. But then, I don't understand poetry, except about battles, Macaulay and Scott. Don't you love 'Marmion'?"

"Indeed I do!" said Phil, heartily. "Hi!"

This last brief exclamation was made in a tone of some concern.

"What is it?" asked Peggy. "Am I trimming wrong?"

"Right as a trivet! but—have you ever heard of a williwaw, Peggy?"

"It's a squall, isn't it? Captain Slocum tells about them in 'Sailing Alone Round the World.'"

"That's it! Well, I think we are going to get one. If you will take the helm again for a moment, I'll take in a reef."

Peggy took the tiller in her strong little brown hand, and looked on admiringly while Phil reefed the sail with creditable swiftness. Soon all was tight, and the two young people watched with cheerful interest the coming on of the squall.

On it came, a line of white on the water, a gray curtain of driving rain above it. The wind began to sing in the rigging of the sailboat; next moment she heeled heavily over, and sped along with her lee rail under water.

"I'd sit pretty well up to windward if I were you," shouted Phil. "You'll be dryest on the gunwale, if you don't mind!"

As Peggy seated herself with alacrity on the gunwale, Phil looked at her with approval. Her eyes were shining, her whole rosy face alight with happy excitement.

"Now, that's the kind of girl I like to see!" said this young gentleman, forgetting that he had been seeing three of the same kind ever since he could remember; but sisters are different!

"Not so bad, eh?" he said, as he took another turn on the sheet.

"Oh, Phil, it is perfectly splendid! why, we are simply flying! Oh, I wish it was like this all the time."

"Hi!" said Phil again. "Everybody doesn't seem to be of your opinion, Peggy. That boat over there will be in trouble if she doesn't look out. Sapolio! there is something wrong. We'd better run over and see."

At a little distance a small boat was tossing violently on the water; her sail was lowered, and a white handkerchief was fluttering from the stern like a signal of distress.

"Ready about!" said Phil. Peggy crouched down on the seat, the boom swung over, and the gallant little Petrel flew swiftly as her namesake to the rescue.

"Anything wrong?" asked Phil, as he ran alongside the crippled boat.

"Broke our rudder!" was the reply, from a pleasant-looking lad; "must have been cracked before we started. If you could lend us a pair of oars—I was very stupid to come out without a pair—"

At this moment a clear, shrill voice was heard above the noise of wind and water, crying aloud, "My Veezy Vee! my Veezy Vee! It is my Veezy Vee! Don't tell me it isn't, for it simply is!"

"Viola!" cried Peggy. "Vanity! can it be you?"

"Oh, my dear! I was once, perhaps, but with all my crimps out, how can you have the heart? If ever I get ashore alive,—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Viola!" said the lad, in a tone of brotherly tolerance. "You are in no more danger—now—then if you were in bed. Though I admit it might have been rather fussy if we hadn't met you!" he added, with a meaning look at Phil.

"How far have you to go?" asked Phil. "Buffum's Point? Well, now, look here! that will be a long, hard pull against this wind. You'd much better let us tow you down to our camp, and then you can ship a new rudder, and go home any old time when the wind sets right."

The young man hesitated. "Why—you're awfully good," he said, "but I think we'd better get home—"

"Oh, do, do let us go, Tom!" cried the pretty girl who had waved the handkerchief, and who seemed still, somehow, to be waving everything about her. "No, I won't be quiet! It's my Veezy Vee, I tell you; it's Peggy Montfort, and I am simply expiring to talk to her. Besides, if I am going to be drowned, I want to be drowned with another girl. Oh, Peggy, isn't it dreadful? Do you think we shall ever get home alive?"

Here the wind caught her hat, and in a frantic effort to retain it, she very nearly fell overboard. "There!" she cried. "I told you so, Tommy; I knew I should be drowned."

"I never said you wouldn't," replied her brother, with some heat, "if you play such pranks as that. You simply must sit still, Vi!"

"Oh, it's all very well to say I must sit still, Tommy Vincent. If you had a hat that was the pride of your life, instead of a felt saucepan, perhaps you wouldn't want to have it carried off and drowned before your eyes. My precious hatty!"

"Why, we are all right, Viola," said Peggy. "It is perfectly splendid, I think. Besides, the worst of it is past. Look! the sky is lightening already; the whole thing will be over soon."

"But I am drenched to the skin!" cried poor Viola. "The rain has gone through and wet my poor bones, I know it has; I shall never be dry again, I am convinced, never: there isn't a school-book in the world dry enough to dry me, Peggy, not even Hallam's 'Middle Ages.'"

"Pooh! who cares for a wetting?" said Peggy, shaking herself like a Newfoundland dog. "It only adds to the fun."

"Oh! that's all very well for you, Veezy Vee!" cried poor Viola. "But if you had on a silk waist, you would feel differently, I know you would. And my hat simply was the sweetest thing you ever saw; wasn't it, Tom? Sugar was salt beside it; wasn't it, Tom?"

Tom, who had been holding a consultation with Phil over the broken rudder, answered by a brief, though not unfriendly growl, and paid no further attention to her. The painter of his boat was made fast to the Petrel's stern, and the latter was soon winging her way toward the Camp, towing the disabled boat behind her.

"Aren't you Vincent of 1903?" asked Phil, leaning over the stern, his hand on the tiller and one eye on the clouds. "Thought so! Used to see you about the yard. My name is Merryweather; 1902."

"Glad to know you!" said Tom Vincent. "I thought it must be you; I used to see you rowing, of course. Your brother—"

He was interrupted by excited squeaks from his sister, who was gazing at Phil with sparkling eyes.

"No!" she cried. "It can't be! It would be too delicious! not Merryweather! Don't ask me to believe it, Peggy, for it simply is beyond my powers. Not the Snowy's brother!"

"Yes, indeed!" said Peggy, laughing as she, too, leaned back over the stern. "Let me introduce you; Mr. Philip Merryweather, Miss Viola Vincent."

"Awfully glad!" said Phil, making a motion toward where his hat should have been. "I've often heard my sister speak of you, Miss Vincent."

"Oh! Mr. Merryweather, I adore the Snowy!" cried Viola. "She is simply the dearest creature on the face of the earth. I would give the wide world—I would give my very best frill to see her. Don't tell me she is near here, for I should expire with joy; simply expire!"

"I certainly will not," said Phil, smiling, "if the consequences would really be so terrible, Miss Vincent. Otherwise, I might venture to predict that you would see her in about ten minutes. If you feel any untoward symptoms developing, please consider it unsaid!"

"Oh! Tom, isn't it too thrilling?" cried Viola. "Oh! Tom, aren't you perfectly rigid with excitement? It makes Tom rigid, Mr. Merryweather, and it makes me flutter; we are so different. Aren't you rigid, Tommy?"

"Viola, don't be a goose!" said her brother, good-naturedly. "I am not in the least rigid, though I shall be delighted to see Miss Merryweather, of course."

"You can see the camp now, through the trees," said Phil. "There is the flag, just over that tall pine. Flag by day; lantern by night. That is 'Merryweather.' Ready about, Peggy, for the last tack!"

The squall had passed, and though the water was still rough, the waves were tossing merrily in blue and white under a brilliant sun. The Petrel sped along, the silver foam bubbling up before her prow, and the Seamew, as the other boat was named, followed as swiftly.

Peggy leaned back over the stern once more, and holding out her hand to her old schoolmate, gave her slender fingers a squeeze that made her cry out.

"Dear old Vanity," said Peggy; "I forgot how soft your hands always were. But I am so glad to see you, even if I am not going to expire about it. Do tell me how you came here, and where you are staying, and all about it, now that we can hear ourselves speak."

"How did I come here, my dear?" repeated Viola Vincent. "Witchcraft!"

"What do you mean, you foolish thing?"

"My dear, what I say; simply that and nothing more, just like the Raven. Witchcraft! The very minute I get home, I am going to get a pointed black hat and a red cloak, and a crutch-stick. I think they will be quite sweet, don't you? Don't you think pointed hats are quite sweet, Mr. Merryweather?"

"Pointed hats," replied Phil, gravely, "have always seemed to me the acme of sweetness; that is why they call them sugar-loaf hats, I suppose."

"Oh! Mr. Merryweather, you are funny! Oh, I hoped you were going to be funny," cried Viola; "you look funny, and—"

"Thank you!" said Phil; and "Viola, don't be a goose!" said her brother again.

"I mean it as a compliment!" cried Viola. "Mr. Merryweather, I mean it as the very highest compliment I can pay, I truly do. With such a simply entrancing name as Merryweather, it would be such a dreadful pity to be sober as a judge, you know; though the only judge I know is too frisky for anything. Kittens, my dear, I—I mean, Mr. Merryweather—I beg your pardon! are actually grim beside Judge Gay; aren't they, Tommy? Did you ever see a grim kitten, Mr. Merryweather? Wouldn't it be too horrid for anything? Well, but what I meant to say is, the only weeniest speck of a fault I ever had to find with the Snowy—darling thing!—was that she was a little bit—just the tiniest winiest scrap—too serious. If your name were Tombs, you know, or Graves, or Scull,—I knew a girl named Scull,—of course you would have to be serious to live up to it; but when your name is Merryweather, you ought to live up to that, and so I always told the Snowy."

"I am sure the Snowy was always jolly enough," said Peggy, bluntly, "except when you wanted to get into mischief, Vanity!"

"Yes, but I always wanted to get into mischief," replied Viola; "so that made it a little hard for me, Peggy, you must admit it did, especially when I adored the Snowy, and couldn't bear to have her look grave at me. Mr. Merryweather, when the Snowy looked really grave at me, it froze my young blood, just like Hamlet's; didn't it, Peggy? I used to go and sit on the radiator to get thawed out, didn't I, Peggy?"

"Oh, of course," said Peggy, laughing. "But all this time, Vanity, we have not heard about the witchcraft that brought you to this part of the world."

"Oh! so you haven't. Well, now you shall. You see I am eighteen this summer, so Puppa said I should choose where we should go, whether to the mountains, or to Newport, or to this lake, where he knew of a camp he could have. So I thought I would say Newport, on account of my new frills; I had some perfectly heavenly new frills, and of course Newport is the best place to show them. But just as I was going to say 'Newport,' something made me turn right round and say to come here. I supposed it was partly because of course I knew Puppa hated Newport, and he is such a perfect duck about going there; but now I know that it was witchcraft, and something inside me, black cats or something, made me know, without knowing anything about it, that you and the Snowy were going to be here, Peggy. So now I am perfectly happy! Oh! Oh! Why, there is the Snowy! Oh, Snowy, you darling! It's me! It's Vanity! How do you do? Isn't this too perfectly entrancing for anything!"

With a graceful turn, Phil brought his boat alongside the wharf, where a group of campers, Gertrude among them, were gathered to receive them. Gertrude had Viola in her arms in a moment, and was welcoming her with a warmth that made the emotional little creature sob with real pleasure and affection.

"Oh, Snowy!" she cried, "I always liked you better than any one else, Snowy. I never thought I was going to see you again."

"My dear, dear little Viola!" cried Gertrude. "Have you dropped from the clouds? Why, this is too good to be true. But you are wet through! Come in this moment with me, and get on dry things!"

She hurried Viola away to the tents, and Mr. Merryweather took possession of her brother with the same hospitable intent, though Tom Vincent protested that he was "no wetter than was entirely comfortable."

Phil, taking in his sail, turned an expressive eye on his twin, who had come aboard to help him.

"Gee!" he said, thoughtfully. "A new variety, Obadiah! Pollybirdia singularis, as Edward Lear hath it."

"She's mighty pretty!" said Gerald.

"She is that!" said Phil.



CHAPTER XIII.

ABOUT VISITING

"GOOD-BY, Tommy, dear. Be sure to tell Mamma that I thought she would not mind my staying, when Mrs. Merryweather was so perfectly heavenly as to ask me. Be sure to tell her that my skirt is all cockled up, so that you could put it in your waistcoat pocket, Tom; and that the only way to save it is to press it damp, and let it dry before I put it on. Tell her that I have got on a dress of the Snowy's that is simply divine,—more becoming than anything I ever had on; and that my silk waist has run—oh, tell her it has run miles, Tom, so that I can never—"

"There, there, Vi!" cried Tom Vincent, pushing his boat off. "I must run, before you swamp me entirely with messages. I'll come back for you to-morrow, and bring your toggery. Ever so many thanks, everybody. You've been awfully good. I've had a corking time. Good-by!"

The sail filled, the boat swung round, and was soon speeding along the lake, while her owner still waved his cap and looked back to the wharf, where the campers stood, giving back his greeting with hearty good will.

"Nice chap!" said Gerald to Phil.

"Corker!" said Phil to Gerald.

"Nor," added Gerald, turning to look after the girls as they walked back along the slip, "nor is the sororial adjunct totally devoid of attraction. What thinkest, Fergy?"

He shot a quick glance at his brother, and seemed to await his reply with some eagerness.

"I think she's as pretty as a picture," said Phil, soberly.

"You have a nose on your face, if it comes to that," said Gerald. "At least it passes for one. Weiter!"

"I think she's awfully jolly, and all that," said Phil. "Nice, jolly, good-natured girl."

"Granted; she's great fun."

"But," Phil went on, slowly,—"oh, well! you know what I mean. If our girls went on like that, we should be under the painful necessity of ducking them. Now, Peggy—"

He paused and examined the mooring of the boat, critically.

"Now, Peggy," Gerald repeated, jogging him with his elbow. "Always finish a sentence when you can, son. It argues poverty of invention to have to stop in the middle. You can always fall back on 'tooral looral lido,' if you can't think of anything else. What about Peggy?"

"Oh, nothing. Only she is just like the rest of us, and that seems more natural; that's all."

"And 'beyond a doubt we are the people; and wisdom will perish with us,'" quoted Gerald, his face brightening as he spoke. "'Tis well. Come on, thou antiquated ape, and let us pump out the float."

Meantime the girls had sought their favorite pine parlor, and were deep in talk. High would be a more descriptive adjective; for Viola Vincent was the principal talker, and her shrill, clear treble quivered up to the very tree-tops, startling the birds in their nests, and sending the squirrels scampering to and fro with excitement.

"My dear, this is too delicious, simply too! I should expire, if I lived here, of pure joy. Oh, Snowy, what a darling you are! Your nose is just as straight as ever, isn't it? Rulers, my dear, are crooked beside it, aren't they? If I had a straight nose, I should pass away from sheer bliss. My nose turns up more every year; it's the only aspiring thing about me. Pothooks are straight by comparison. Isn't it a calamity?"

"Tiptilted like the petal of a flower," said Gertrude, laughing. "I always thought your nose one of your prettinesses, Vanity, and I believe you think so, too."

"Oh! my dear, how can you?" cried Viola, caressing her little nose, which was certainly piquant and pretty enough to please any one. "You don't really mean it, do you? You just say it to comfort me, don't you? You are such a comforting darling! Where did you get that heavenly shade of green, Snowy? I never saw anything so lovely in my life. It is just the color of jade. My dear, I saw some jade bracelets the other day that were simply made for you. I wanted to tear them from the girl's arms, and say, 'What are you doing with the Snowy's bracelets?' She was a dump, with a complexion like Doctor Somebody or other's liniment. A person who can wear jade is simply the—"

"Oh, come, Vanity!" said Peggy, good-naturedly. "Come out of the millinery business, and tell us about yourself, and about the other girls. What has become of Vex—of Vivia Varnham?"

"My dear! haven't you heard?"

"Not a word! You have never written, you know, since we left school, and she would not be likely to."

"You didn't love each other quite to distraction, did you?" said Viola. "Poor V. V.! she really was the limit sometimes, wasn't she? I never minded her, of course, because I never listened to what she said. Besides, she was like pickles, you know; you just took her with the rest of your dinner, and she didn't make much difference. I used to tell her so. Well, poor V. V.! You never could guess: married, my dear!"

"Married!" echoed Peggy and Gertrude.

"Married! to a missionary; widower, with four children. Gone to China! You need not believe it unless you like; I don't believe it myself, though I saw them married."

"It is hard to believe, Vi!" said Gertrude. "How did it happen?"

"My dear, the limit! positively, the boundary line, arctic circle, and that sort of thing. Love at first sight, on both sides. Spectacles, bald,—not the spectacles, but he,—snuffy to a degree! You really never did! I was the first person she told. I simply screamed. 'My dear!' I said, 'you cannot mean it. You could not live with that waistcoat!'

"She told me I was frivolous—which I never attempted to deny—and said I did not understand, which was the truth. She looked really quite sweet in her wedding-dress, and when she went away she was quite softened, she truly was, and wept a little weep, and so did I. You see, Snowy, the very first thing I can remember in my life is V. V.'s breaking my doll over my head. I miss her dreadfully, I do indeed; nobody has been—well, acidulated, to me since she went, and I need the tonic. And speaking of tonics, where is Beef? where is the Fluffy? You know"—turning to Margaret—"I used to call the Snowy and the Fluffy and the Horny my triple tonic, Beef, Wine, and Iron; and the Fluffy was Beef. Steady and square, you know, and red and brown; exactly like beef; simply no difference except the clothes. How is she, Snowy?"

"The Fluffy—Bertha Haughton, you know, Margaret—is teaching in Blankton High School; very busy, very happy, indeed, perfectly absorbed in her work. I have a letter from her in my pocket this minute, that came last night. Would you like to hear it?"

And amid a clamor of eager assent, she drew out the letter and read as follows.

"'Dear Snowy: It is good to hear about all the jolly times at Camp. I wish I could come, but see no way to it just now. Yes, I know school is over, but there are the rank lists to make out, and all kinds of odd end-of-the-year chores to be done; besides, two of my boys have conditions to work out,—going to college in the fall,—and I am tutoring them. They are two of the dearest boys that ever were, only not very bright, and I have promised to stand by them.' This is the way she behaves, after teaching all the year; she is incorrigible! 'All the others passed without conditions, and three of them got honors, so I am very proud and happy. This has been the best year of all; but then, I say that every year, don't I? I do feel more and more that I am doing the thing in the whole world that I like best to do.'

"The rest is just messages, and so on; but you see how happy she is, and how utterly absorbed."

"My dear, it is too amazing!" cried Viola Vincent. "The very thought of teaching makes me simply dissolve with terror; little drops of water, my dear, would be all that would be left of poor Vanity; not a grain of sand to hold her together. Hush! let me tell you something! Last year I tried to teach a class in Sunday school,—great, terrible boys, taller than I was,—and I almost expired, I assure you I did. They never knew their lessons, and two of them made eyes at me, and the rest made faces at each other; it was simply excruciating. Then the rector asked me if I didn't think I could dress more simply; said I set an example, and so on. I told him I was dressed like a broomstick then, as far as simplicity was concerned, and so I was, simply and positively like a broomstick; only my dress—it was a rose-colored foulard, the most angelic shade you ever saw, girls; just like a sunset cloud, somebody said—happened to have ruffles to the waist, and ribbons fluttering about more or less. He said I fluttered, and I told him I certainly did. 'I always flutter, Mr. Monk,' I said. 'When I don't flutter, I shall be dead.' Which was true. He was quite peevish, but I was firm; you know you have to be firm about such things. Only, the next Sunday he happened to come by when one of those great dreadful boys asked me if Solomon's seal was tame, and I said I didn't think it was. Well, I didn't! But he wrote me a note next day, saying he thought teaching was not my forte, and perhaps I would like visiting better. I fully agreed with him, so now I visit, and it is simply dandy. I just love it!"

"Tell us about your visiting, Vi!" said Gertrude. "I am going to take it up next winter, and I should like to know how you do it."

"My dear! Such sport! There are some dear old ladies I go to see, perfect old ducks; in a Home, you know. I go once a week, and I put on all my frills, and never wear the same dress twice if I can help it, and I tell them all about the parties I go to, and what I wear, and what my partners are like, and about the suppers, and take them my German favors, and they simply love it! Mr. Monk thinks it's terrible that I don't read them tracts; my dear, they abominate tracts, and so do I; we found that out at once. So I read them the gayest, frilliest little stories I can find, that are really nice, and they adore it. One day—my dears! will you promise never to breathe it if I tell you something? never even to sneeze it?"

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

"Well—hush! It was simply fierce; and the greatest sport I ever had in my life. There is one old lady in the Home who is too perfectly sweet for anything. Miss Bathsheba Barry; did you ever hear such a delicious name? She is just my height, and as pretty as a picture in her cap and kerchief. They all wear caps and kerchiefs, and little gray gowns, the most becoming costume you ever saw; I am going into the Home the very minute my looks begin to go, because I do look quite—but wait! Hush! not a word! Well! I had been teasing Miss Barry for ever and ever so long to let me dress up in her things, because I knew they would suit me, and at last, one day, the dear old thing consented. It was the time for the matron's afternoon visit, and she is very jolly, and I wanted to surprise her. So I put on the little gray gown, and the delicious cap, just like Rembrandt's mother, and the white net kerchief—don't you adore white net, Snowy? it softens the face so!—and the apron; and then I went and sat down in Miss Barry's chair by the window, with her knitting, and put on her spectacles—oh! how she did laugh. Then we heard steps, and Miss Barry went into the closet and shut the door all but a crack to peep through, and I turned my head away from the door, and knitted away for dear life. Oh, girls! The door opened, and I heard Mrs. Poddle say, 'This way, gentlemen! This is Miss Barry's room.' Gentlemen! My dears, I thought I should pass away! Then there came great, loud men's steps, and I heard Mr. Monk's voice—'This is one of our most interesting inmates, Bishop! Eighty-seven years old, and as sprightly as a girl. A most pious and exemplary person. Good morning, Miss Barry! How is your rheumatism to-day?'



"'Simply fierce, your reverence!' said I, in a little squeaky voice, as like Miss Barry's as I could make it. I kept my face turned away, and pretended to be counting stitches very hard.

"'Ahem!' said Mr. Monk. I could hear that he was surprised, for, of course, Miss Barry wouldn't say 'simply fierce,' but it slipped out before I knew it.

"'Miss Barry,' he said, 'I have brought Bishop Ballantyne to see you. I am sure you will be glad to receive him.'

"'Oh, I should perfectly love to see the Bishop!' I said; because Bishop Ballantyne is simply a duck, an adorable duck; but still I did not turn round; and I could hear Miss Barry squeaking with laughter in the closet, and it was really getting quite awful. But now Mr. Monk began to suspect something. I believe he thought I had been drinking, or rather that Miss Barry had, poor old dear. He said, in a pretty awful voice: 'What does this mean? Miss Barry, I desire that, if you are unable to rise, you will at least turn round, and receive Bishop Ballantyne in a fitting manner. I cannot conceive—I must beg you to believe, Bishop, that this has never happened before. I am beyond measure distressed. Miss Barry,—'

"And then he stopped, for I turned round. I had to, of course; there was nothing else to do.

"'How do you do, Bishop Ballantyne?' I said. 'Can you tell me whether Solomon's seal was tame or not?'

"For a minute they both stared as if they had seen a ghost; but then the Bishop went off into a great roar of laughter, and I thought he would laugh himself into fits, and me, too; and the more solemn Mr. Monk looked, the more we laughed; and Miss Barry was cackling like a hen in the closet—oh, it was great, girls, it truly was! At last Mr. Monk had to laugh too, he couldn't help it; it was simply too utter, you know. He said I was enough to break up an entire parish; and the Bishop said he would take me into his, cap and all. And then the matron came back, and Miss Barry came out, and we all stayed to tea, the Bishop and Mr. Monk and I, and had the time of our lives; at least, I did.

"So you see, girls, visiting can be the greatest sport in the world, if you only know how to do it. But we all had to promise Mr. Monk and Mrs. Poddle not to tell, because they said it was enough to break up the discipline of the Home, and I suppose it was."



CHAPTER XIV.

MOONLIGHT AGAIN

THE evening was showery, and indoor games were the order of it. The first half-hour after the dishes were washed (a task performed to music, all hands joining in the choruses of "John Peel," "Blow, ye winds of morning," etc.) was spent quietly enough, four of the party at parcheesi, the others busy over crokinole and jackstraws; but by and by there was a cry of "Boston!" and instantly boards and counters were put away on their shelf, and the decks cleared for action. The whole party drew their chairs into a circle, and the fun began. A pleasant sight it was to see Mr. Merryweather blindfold in the middle of the circle, calling out the numbers two by two, and trying to catch the flitting figures as they changed places. A pleasant sight it was to see the young people leaping, crouching, and gliding across the circle, avoiding his outstretched arms with surprising agility.

"Two and Fourteen!" he would cry; and Gerald and Bell would slip from their places, like shadows. Gerald was across in two long, noiseless lopes, while Bell whisked under her father's very hand, which almost closed on her flying skirt; and a shout of "All over!" greeted the accomplishment of the exchange.

"This will never do!" said Mr. Merryweather. "You all have quicksilver in your heels, I believe. Seven and Twelve! Come Seven, come Twelve!"

Seven and Twelve were Jack Ferrers and Peggy, and they came. Jack, gathering his long legs under him, crept on all fours half-way round the circle, and then made a plunge for the chair which Peggy had just vacated. He landed on the edge, and over went chair and Jack into the fireplace with a resounding crash. This startled Peggy so that she ran directly into Mr. Merryweather's arms, and was caught and firmly held.

"Let me see!" said Mr. Merryweather. "One pigtail! But I believe all you wretched girls dress your hair precisely alike for 'Boston.' Ha! peculiar sleeve-buttons! Now who has buttons like these? Peggy!"

Then it was Peggy's turn to be blindfolded, and a vigorous "Colin Maillard" she made, flying hither and thither, and coming within an ace of catching Gerald himself, who was rarely caught. Finally she seized a flying pigtail belonging to Kitty; and so the merry game went on till all were out of breath with running and laughing.

Phil went to the door to breathe the cool air, and came back with the announcement, "All clear overhead, perfectly corking moonlight. Why do we stay indoors?"

"Canoes!" cried the younger Merryweathers; and there was a rush for the door; but the Chief stopped them with a gesture. "Too late!" he said. "It is nine o'clock now; time you were in bed, Kitty."

"We might sit on the float and sing a little," suggested Mrs. Merryweather.

"The float! The float!" shouted the boys and girls. There was a snatching up of pillows and wraps, and the whole family trooped down to the float, where they established themselves in a variety of picturesque attitudes. Again it was a wonderful night; the late moon was just rising above the dark trees, no longer the full round, but still brilliant enough to fill the world with light.

"This has been a wonderful moon!" said some one.

"Yes," said Gerald; "it is quite the last thing in moons, not the ordinary article at all. We don't have ordinary moons on this pond. Who made that highly intellectual remark?"

"It was I," said Bell, laughing; "and I maintain, Jerry, that this moon has been a very long, and a very—well, a very splendid one. Just think! not a single cloudy evening till this one; and now it clears off in time to give us our moonlight hour before bed-time."

"The harvest moon is always long," said Mr. Merryweather. "Bell is perfectly right, Jerry."

"Strike home!" said Gerald, baring his breast with a dramatic gesture. "Strike home!

"'There's no more moonlight for poor Uncle J., For he's gone whar de snubbed niggers go.'"

"I was just going to propose singing," said his mother; "but before we begin, suppose we do honor to this good moon, that has treated us so well. Let every one give a quotation in her honor. I will begin:

"'That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn.'

Shelley. I am a cloud, be it understood!"

"I should hardly have guessed it," said Mr. Merryweather. "My turn? I'll go back to Milton:

"'Now glowed the firmament With living sapphires; Hesperus, that led The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, Rising in clouded majesty, at length Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.'"

"Oh, I say!" murmured Gerald; "that is a peach!"

"Jerry," said his mother, plaintively, "have you no adjectives, my poor destitute child? I can imagine few things less peach-like than that glorious passage. But never mind! Jack, it is your turn."

"'The gray sea and the long black land, And the yellow half-moon large and low—'"

said Jack, half under his breath.

"It isn't yellow, and it isn't half," said Gerald. "But never mind, as the Mater says. Margaret, you come next."

Margaret looked up, her face full of tranquil happiness.

"I was thinking," she said, "of some lines from 'Evangeline,' that I have always loved. I say them over to myself every night in this wonderful moon-time:

"'Beautiful was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight, Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and devious spirit.'"

"Peggy, what have you for us?" asked Mrs. Merryweather.

"Oh!" cried poor Peggy, "you know I never can remember poetry, Mrs. Merryweather. I shall have to take to 'Mother Goose.' I know I am terribly prosy—well, prosaic, then, Margaret; what's the difference? But I can't think of anything except: