"'Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear, That tips with silver all the fruit-tree tops,'"

said Gertrude. "I can't remember the next line."

"What I miss in this game," said Gerald, in a critical tone, "is accuracy. There isn't a fruit-tree on the Point."

"And the moon, of course, limits herself strictly to the point!" said Gertrude, laughing.

"It's more than you do!" retorted her brother. "But a truce to badinage!

I go back to prose and 'Happy Thoughts.' 'I say "O moon!" rapturously, but nothing comes of it.'"

"But something shall come of it this time, Jerry," said his mother.

"Perhaps we have had enough quotations now. Give us the 'Gipsy Song.'"

Nothing loth, Gerald sang the wild, beautiful song, his sisters humming the accompaniment. Then one song and another was called for, and the night rang with ballad and barcarole, glee and round. There never seemed to be any limit to the Merryweather repertoire.

Presently Bell whispered to Gertrude; the latter pa.s.sed the whisper on to Margaret and Peggy. Silently all four girls rose and slipped away, with a word breathed into Mrs. Merryweather's ear, begging her to keep up the singing.

"Where are the girls going?" asked their father.

"They will be back in a moment," said Mrs. Merryweather. "Give us 'Prinz Eugen,' boys; all of you together!"

And out rolled, in booming ba.s.s and silvery tenor, the glorious old camp song of the German wars:

"Prinz Eugen, der edle Ritter, Woll't dem Kaiser wied'rum kriegen Stadt und Festung Belgerad."

This was a favorite song of the Merryweather boys, and they never knew which verse to leave out, so they generally sang all nine of them. They did so this time, and finally ended with a prolonged roar of:

"Liess ihm bringen recht zu Peterwardein."

A moment of silence followed. Indeed, none of the singers had any breath left.

"'And silence like a poultice falls, To heal the blows of sound!'"

quoted Mr. Merryweather. "Hark! what is that?"

Again the sound of singing was heard. This time it came from the direction of the tents. Girl's voices, thrilling clear and sweet on the stillness. The air was even more familiar than that of "Prinz Eugen,"

one of the sweetest airs that ever echoed to moonlight and the night:

"Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten, Da.s.s ich so traurig bin;"--

The girls came singing out into the moonlight, hand in hand. They were in bathing-dress; their long hair floated over their shoulders; their white arms shone in the white light. Instead of coming back to the float, they plunged into the water, and swam, still singing, to a rock that reared a great rounded back from the water. Up on this rock they climbed, and sat them down, shaking off the water in diamond spray; and still their voices rang out, clear and thrilling on the quiet air:

"Die schonste Jungfrau sitzet Dort oben wunderbar; Ihr goldnes Geschmeide blitzet, Sie kammt ihr goldenes Haar."

"Gee!" muttered Gerald to himself.

"Pretty!" said Mr. Merryweather, taking his pipe from between his teeth.

"Miranda, I don't know that I ever saw anything much prettier than that."

His wife made no reply, but her eyes spoke for her. None of the lads could look more eagerly or more joyfully at that lovely picture. Were not two of the maidens her very own?

Gertrude was facing them as she sang. Her red-gold hair fell like a mantle of glory about her, far below her waist; her arms, clasped behind her head, were like carved ivory; her face was lifted, and the moon shone full on its pure outlines and candid brow. Bell's rosy face was partly in shadow, but her n.o.ble voice floated out rich and strong, filling the air with melody. There was no possibility of doubt, to Mrs.

Merryweather's mind, which two of the quartette were most attractive.

Yet when she said softly to the son who happened to be next her: "Aren't they lovely, Jerry?" he answered, abstractedly, "Isn't she!" and his eyes were fixed, not on stately Gertrude, or stalwart Bell, but on a slender figure between them, that clung timidly to the rock, one hand clasped in Peggy's. Also, it is to be noted that, when the song was over, and Peggy made an exceptionally clean and graceful dive off the rock, Phil exclaimed, "Jove! that was a corker!" to which John Ferrers replied, "Yes; the sweetest contralto I ever heard."

"I never heard you sing better than you did last night," said Jack to Bell. It was next morning, and he was stirring the porridge industriously, while she mixed the johnny-cake.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "HE WAS STIRRING THE PORRIDGE INDUSTRIOUSLY, WHILE SHE MIXED THE JOHNNY-CAKE."]

"So glad!" said Bell, simply. "I aim to please. I'd put in a little more water, Jack, if I were you; it's getting too stiff."

Jack poured in the water, and stirred for some minutes in silence.

Presently he said: "I heard from those people last night."

"From the Conservatory? Oh, Jack! do tell me! I have been thinking so much about it. Is it all right?"

"I think so," said Jack, slowly. "They offer me two thousand, and there is an excellent chance for private pupils besides; I have decided to accept it."

"Oh, Jack, how splendid! Oh, I am so glad! I knew it would come--the chance--if you only had patience, and you surely have had it. How happy Hilda will be!"

"Yes," said Jack, soberly. "I owe it to Hilda, every bit of it, as I owe several other things. This, for example."

"This?" repeated Bell. "Meaning the porridge?"

She spoke lightly, yet there was an undertone of feeling in her voice.

"The porridge, and all the rest of it," said Jack. "The place, the life, the friends, the happiness, and--you--all!"

It might have been noted that the "all" was added after a moment's pause, as if it were an afterthought.

"Dear Hilda!" said Bell, softly. "We all owe her a very great deal."

"If it had not been for Hildegarde Grahame," said Jack, "I should have grown up a savage."

"Oh! no, you would not, Jack."

"Yes, I should, Bell. When I first came to Roseholme, I was just at the critical time. I adored my father, who was an angel,--too much of one to understand a mere human boy. I came to please him, and at first I didn't get hold of Uncle Tom at all, nor he of me. He thought me an a.s.s,--well, he was right enough there,--and I thought him a bear and a brute. I was on the point of running away and starting out on my own account, my fiddle and I against the world, when I met Hilda, and she changed life from an enemy into a friend."

Bell was silent for a moment; then, "I have often wondered--" she said, and broke off short.

"So have I!" said Jack. "I don't know now why I didn't. Yes, I do, too."

"Why?" asked Bell, her eyes on her mixing-bowl.

"It's hard to put it into words," said Jack, with a queer little laugh.

"I suppose I felt that I never should have had a chance; but--but yet, I am not sure that I should not have tried my luck, even then, if--if something else had not happened to me."