Hildegarde's Harvest

A pleasant sight was Jimmy's Pond an hour later, when all the party had assembled. Hildegarde came in regal state, escorted by Colonel Ferrers and his brother, one walking on either side, while the three tall lads strode along before, now thoroughly at ease with each other, and Hugh capered and curveted in the rear. The child had a horse's tail fastened to his belt behind, and was Pegasus on Helicon, oblivious of all things earthly.

They found Bell and Gertrude awaiting them, their cheeks already glowing from a preliminary tour of the pond. In the distance Willy and Kitty could be seen tugging each other valiantly along, falling and scrambling down and up. Bell was looking her best, in her trim suit of brown velveteen, with the pretty little mink cap. Hildegarde thought her more like a snow-apple than ever, and hoped Jack saw how pretty and sweet she was. Air-castles are pleasant building, and our Hildegarde had one well under way already; a castle whose walls should rise to the sound of music, and in which two happy people should play, play, play, all day and every day.

Hildegarde herself, in dark blue corduroy trimmed with chinchilla, was very good to look at, and more than one pair of eyes followed her as she swept along in graceful curves, holding Hugh's hands in hers.

"A very lovely young creature, Tom!" said Raymond Ferrers, as he stood a while, after fastening his skates. "Not so beautiful as her mother. I find Mildred more beautiful than ever, Tom."

"You were always near-sighted, Raymond, you will allow me to observe!" cried the Colonel, ruffling instantly. "I admire Mrs. Grahame beyond any woman—of her age—that lives. She is a noble woman, sir! an admirable creature! But to say that she compares in looks with a blooming creature like that,—a princess, by Jove! A young Diana, the very sight of whom makes a man young again. By the way, Raymond," he added, after a pause, in an altered voice. "I don't know, my dear fellow, whether you have noticed any—a—resemblance, any look of—eh?"

"Yes, indeed, my dear Tom; I noticed it instantly. Sweet Hester! This might be her younger sister. Yes! yes! Tempo passato, eh, brother? We are old fellows, but we once were young."

"Stuff and nonsense!" cried the Colonel, throwing off his mood with sudden violence. "Speak for yourself, sir! If a man chooses to spend his days hunched over a table, making fiddles, I don't say how things may turn out with him; but for myself,—here, Young Sir! bring me a hockey-stick, will you?"

Hugh, prancing by in full career, paused, and surveyed his guardian with dreamy eyes.

"Hi-hi-hi!" he replied, with a creditable attempt at a whinny.

The Colonel stiffened to "attention."

"What did I understand you to remark, sir?" he inquired. "I experience a difficulty in following your interesting observation."

"Hi-hi-hi!" repeated the boy. "I am Pegasus; I do not understand your language. I will find Bellerophon, and send him to you."

He retired a few paces, and gravely removed his tail, then came back, beaming with cheerfulness, every inch a boy.

"What was it you wanted, Guardian?" he cried. "I was a horse then, you see, so I really couldn't; please excuse me!"

"I wanted a hockey-stick, sir!" said the Colonel, with some severity. "And it is my opinion that two-legged horses would better keep their wits about them.

"A game of hockey, Raymond," here he turned to his brother, "will warm your blood, and bring back your wits. 'Polo,' they call it nowadays; parcel of fools! It's my belief that nine-tenths of the human race to-day don't know what they are talking about. Don't understand their own language, sir! Polo, indeed! Ha! here are the sticks. Now we shall see about this 'old fellow' business!"

Indeed, it was a marvellous thing to see the agility of the Colonel in his favourite sport. He swept here and there, he made the most astonishing hits, he hooked the ball from under the very noses of the amazed and delighted boys. Raymond Ferrers, too, after watching the sport for a few minutes, yielded to the spirit of the hour, and was soon cutting away with the best of them.

A pleasant sight was Jimmy's Pond, indeed! The pond itself was a thing of beauty, a disk of crystal dropped down in a hollow of dark woods; dropped into the middle of this again, a tiny islet, with a group of slender firs, lovely to behold. And dotted here and there on the shining gray-silver of the ice, these happy players, young and old, darted hither and thither, filled with the joy of the hour and the pleasure of each other's presence.

It might have been interesting, could one have stood invisible on the bank, to hear the fragments of talk, as the different groups swept by in the chase. They seemed to drop naturally into couples, without any special prearrangement. First came the two brothers, intent on the ball, bent on keeping it ahead of them, and unconscious of anything else.

"Now, sir!" the Colonel would cry. "Let me see you beat that! Hi! There she—no! she doesn't! Ha! ha! Beat you that time, sir!

"'Poor old Raymound,
Fell into a hay-mound!'

"Do you remember that, sir? Only rhyme I ever made in my life; proud as a peacock I was of it, sir! And what was the scurrilous verse you made about me?"

"I always call them 'bantrums,' always shall. Aha! Where are you now, boy? Off she goes!"

Next came Gertrude and Phil, swinging easily along together.

"So glad he is really nice, because he looks so, and it would be so horrid if he were horrid, wouldn't it, Phil? And Bell says he plays—oh, wonderfully, you know."

"Playing isn't everything in the world, Toots! But he does seem to be a good fellow enough. Told us a lot, coming over here, about the way he lived over in Germany. I say! I'd like to go there! Two or three duels every day; great sport, it must be!"

Now it was Willy and Kitty, skating away sturdily, with short, energetic strokes, and holding each other up bravely.

"So he asked me if I would swap with him for another hard one, and I said yes, if it was hard enough; for this Mexican one, you see, was very hard indeed. He said it was.

"So I said all right, hand it over. Well, it was just the end of recess, and he handed it over, all scrumpled up, in a kind of hurry, and I crammed it into my pocket without looking. And when I came to look at it after school, it was a mean old three-cent 'Norji.' So I knocked him down, and it just happened that one of his old teeth was loose, and it came out. I was glad of it, and so were all the fellows, for he meant to cheat, you see; that's why I had the black marks."

Now come Jack and Bell, she a little out of breath, being unused to skating with a giraffe; he all unconscious, discoursing high themes.

"Yes, a good many people play it short, with a kind of choppiness. I hate to hear a violin chop. But J—— gives it with a long, smooth crescendo that seems to carry you straight out of the room, you know, out into the open air, and up among tree-tops. Do you ever feel that way? You seem to feel the air blowing all about you, and—hear all the voices that are shut up in the trees and flowers, and can't get out generally. You know what I mean, I am sure!"

"Yes," says Bell, softly. "But they are all answering to the violin, don't you think? They would not speak to the piano in that way."

"Depends upon who plays it," says gallant Jack. And Hildegarde, close behind, hears, and stumbles a little, and catches Gerald's hand, laughing.

"Take them both!" says Gerald. "Take, incidentally, my heart with them; unless its size and its lacerated condition would make the burden unwelcome, Hilda?"

"I doubt if I should notice," says Hildegarde. "Yes, I will take both hands, Jerry; let us try the outer edge, now. There! that is a delightful swing! You do skate very well, my child."

"Ah! you should see Roger skate!" cried loyal Gerald; and is rewarded by seeing a very pretty blush deepen in his companion's bright cheek.

"Good old Codger! I wish he were here, skating with you, Hilda!"

"Thank you!" says Hilda. "I am sorry to incommode you, Gerald. I can skate perfectly well alone, thank you. There! Don't be absurd, Jerry! You'll get out of step if you don't take care. Do you think we could do a figure of eight together? Let's try!"

Last of all, alone, yet in a world peopled with fantastic joys, came little Hugh. He had his tail on again, and he was skating with a high-stepping gait, rather more suggestive of trotting than was compatible with safety. He murmured to himself as he went, and his talk was far from hockey or any delights of skating.

"Yonder, dear Bellerophon! look yonder, far down below this fleecy cloud that I am just going to plunge into! Now wait till I get through it, and you will see. The cloud is all full of monsters, whales, and crocodiles, and—hairy mammoths; and we have to plunge through them, and they claw after us and try to catch us. But I switch my tail, dear Bellerophon" (here he switched the tail vigorously), "and that frightens them, so that they crawl back into their holes, the ugly things. But down on the earth there, do you see three little spires of smoke, right by the mouth of that black hole? That is the Chimæra, Bellerophon! We have come all the way, and now we are going to have the most terrible fight that any one ever had,—Samson or Hercules or any one else. Aha! now is the time, you see, for me to say 'Aha' among the trumpets; that is why I made you bring your trumpet along. My neck is clothed with thunder, and I am pawing in the valley. See me paw!"

Alas, for the winged steed! Pawing in the valley is a dangerous pastime on smooth ice, and unsustained by hind legs. Pegasus, his head high in air, looking forward to battle and glory, paid little attention to things at his feet. His skate caught in a crack, and, checked in full speed, he came heavily to the ground, and lay motionless.

Hildegarde and Gerald heard the crash, and were at his side in a moment, raising him. The little fellow was stunned, and there was an ugly cut on his forehead.

"Hugh, dear!" cried Hildegarde. "Is it very bad, little boy? You are all right now; Jerry and I are here, and you will be feeling better in a moment."

She took the child's head in her lap, and stanched the blood with her handkerchief, rubbing his temples gently, while Gerald chafed his hands. Presently Hugh opened his eyes. At first his look was vacant, but soon the light came back into the blue eyes, and he tried to smile.

"I pawed too hard!" he whispered. "Beloved, it wasn't the right valley to paw in."

Hildegarde and Gerald exchanged glances.

"He's a little out!" murmured Gerald. "We'd better get him home as quick as we can. Phil and I will carry him."

By this time the others, looking back, had seen that something was wrong, and came hurrying back. Colonel Ferrers turned very white when he saw Hugh lying motionless, his head pillowed on Hildegarde's lap, and the red stain on his temple.

"My little boy!" he gasped. "Jack, where are you? The child! The child is hurt!" Jack was already bending over Hugh; indeed, the anxious group pressed so close that Hildegarde motioned them to back.

"I don't think he is much hurt," she said, looking up at the Colonel, and speaking as cheerfully as she could. "He spoke to me just now, Colonel Ferrers. He was stunned by the fall. I don't think the cut amounts to anything, really."

"No," said Jack, who had been examining the cut, "this isn't anything, Uncle Tom. It's the shock that is the trouble, and he'll be over that in a minute. You're better already, aren't you, old chap?"

Hugh opened his eyes again, but slowly, as if it were an effort.

"How do you do?" he said, politely. "Yes, I am better, thank you, but not quite well yet. You did not seem to understand what I said, so I thought I would wait till I could speak better."

Seeing Jack look bewildered, Gerald whispered, "He was talking nonsense. He takes you for me now; it was to me he was talking."

"I was not talking nonsense!" said Hugh, clearly. "I said I had been pawing in the valley, and that this was not the right valley to paw in. It wasn't! My Beloved will understand what I mean, if she uses her mind."

"He was a horse!" cried the Colonel. "Astonishing thing, that nobody can understand that child, when he is speaking perfectly rationally. He was a horse, I tell you! Whinnied at me, sir, when I asked him to get me a hockey-stick. Try it again, Boy! Let's hear you once more, eh?"

Hugh smiled, but could not do more than shake his head.

"Thank you for explaining, Guardian!" he said. "I was Pegasus, you see, and Bellerophon and I were just going to plunge down through the clouds and kill the Chimæra; but I forgot where I was for a minute, and began to paw in the valley, and say 'Aha!' and, of course, the cloud broke through, and down we went. I hope dear Bellerophon isn't hurt."

"Bellerophon is all right!" said Jack. "Right as a trivet. He says he thinks you'd better go home, old man; he thinks it will be better Chimæra-hunting to-morrow, anyhow."

"Yes! yes!" cried the Colonel, making a brave effort to enter into the child's idea.

"Go back to the stable, Boy,—I mean Dobbin, or whatever your name is, and—and have some hay!"

But Hugh's brow contracted.

"Pegasus didn't eat hay!" he murmured, still leaning against Hildegarde's shoulder.

"No, dear," said the girl. "The Colonel did not mean hay; he meant asphodels and amaranth and moly."

"That sounds better," said Hugh.

"I say," whispered Gerald, who was beginning to recover from his alarm, "you know, I suppose, that asphodel is a kind of pigweed?"

"Hush! Yes! There is no need of the child's knowing it yet. How shall we get him home, Jack?"

"But I will walk home!" cried Hugh, hearing the last words. "I will perhaps trot home, only slowly."

He tried to rise, but sank back again.

"It appears as if there were wheels in my head," he murmured. "They go round too fast."

"Of course they do," said Jack, in the most matter-of-fact way. "I'm going to harness myself into them, and take you home that way. Put him up on my back, will you, Merryweather? So! there we are!"

Delighted to find himself in the once familiar position, Hugh looked up to smile at the anxious Colonel, who stood wiping his brow, and wishing for once that he were twenty and a giraffe.

"I'm all right now, Guardian!" he said. "All right, Beloved! My Jack is an ostrich again, and I am not Pegasus any more just now. I am only Hugh. Good-bye! Good hunting!"

"Only Hugh!" repeated Colonel Ferrers, gazing after the two, as they went across the field, Jack walking steadily, with long, even steps, very different from his usual hop-skip-and-jump method of progression.

"Only Hugh! Only the greater part of the world—eh? what are you saying, Hilda, my dear?"

"Only that we will go home together, dear Colonel Ferrers!" said Hildegarde, who had already taken off her skates. "We will go back together, and the others can follow whenever they are ready. We shall find him comfortable already, with Mrs. Beadle tucking him up in bed, and talking about chicken broth and wine jelly, neither of which he will need in the least. Come, dear sir!"

"I will come!" said the Colonel. "You are a good child, Hilda! I—I am rather shaken, I believe. I will come with pleasure, my love! Be good enough to take my arm!"

CHAPTER XIII.

MERRY CHRISTMAS.

Hildegarde awoke in the dark, with the sound of bells in the air. Her first thought was that of all women in similar case—fire! She sat up in bed and listened; but these were no fire-bells that rang so joyously, breaking through the hush of the winter morning with glad rejoicing. "Glory to the newly born!" she said, softly, and was silent for a little. Presently she waved her hand in a comprehensive greeting to the friends on walls and shelves, whom she could not yet see.

"Merry Christmas!" she cried. "Merry Christmas, Sir Walter! Merry Christmas, Viscount, and you too, Saint William! What a pity I cannot say it in Dutch!"

She hummed a carol to herself, as she recalled the night before, Christmas Eve, which she had spent with the Merryweathers. They had gone together to the carol service at the little church, which they had all helped to make beautiful with spruce and fir and hemlock. After that they sang hymns and carols at home, in full chorus, with such hearty good-will and earnest feeling as it was a joy to remember; and then came the hanging of the stockings. An only child for so long, Hildegarde had never seen before the bewildering, enchanting bustle of Christmas Eve in a large family; the hanging of the stockings, six in a row, the whole length of the great fireplace in the nursery; the delightful mysteries, the parcels which no one saw, the whisperings which no one heard save those to whom they were addressed, the tiptoeing hither and thither, the rustle of tissue-paper,—ah! it was all very pleasant! The kind friends had begged her to stay with them, and share the morning fun, which they declared to be the best of all; but that Hildegarde could not do.

"Mamma and I have only each other!" she said. "You would not really have me leave her alone, dear people!" and the Merryweathers were obliged to confess that they would not, upon any account. So they had parted, with many plans and promises for the next day,—the great, the blessed day of the year. And now it was here! and oh, was it—could it really be snowing?

Hildegarde listened, and heard a sound as of fairy hands beating softly on the window-panes. It was growing lighter every moment, but the light came through a soft, white dimness. Hildegarde ran to the window; the ground was white, the dark branches of the evergreens were bending under a weight of snow, and it was snowing still, not furiously, but in a quiet, determined way, that meant business. Oh, joy! At last, the longed-for winter had come! This ungrateful girl had already received many favours from the Frost King; she had skated, she had had icicles to eat, she had broken through the ice, and got a good wetting,—still she was not content, but longed for snow; and now she had her heart's desire.

Running down-stairs, she found the breakfast-room warm and bright with a crackling, leaping fire on the hearth. Mrs. Grahame was already down, and her long, silent embrace was the first and best Christmas greeting. Then it was "Merry Christmas!" and again "Merry Christmas!" as Auntie came into the room, bringing the fragrant coffee, and the tray piled high with good things.

"Oh, and the mail has come!" cried Hildegarde, fairly dancing round the table to her place. "See, my love! Letters from everybody, heaps upon heaps! Oh, what joy!"

There were greetings from all the distant friends, it seemed; from all the good people at Bywood, from Rose and Doctor Flower, from the dear old couple at Hartley's Glen.

"Oh, how good every one is!" cried Hildegarde. "And here is a parcel—Mammina, what can this be? It looks like Aunt Emily's hand."

"It seems a desperate measure to propose," said Mrs. Grahame, "but I have heard of parcels being opened in such a case. I should not wish to influence you—"

"Oh, my dear!" cried the girl, who had been acting on the suggestion, and undoing the box tied carefully with floss silk. "My Respected Parent, will you look at this?"

It was the prettiest watch, surely, that ever was seen, set with blue enamel and pearls; and with it came a stately little note, assuring "my grandniece" that this was a slight return indeed for the pleasure that she had given to her affectionate E. D.

"Poor dear Aunt Emily!" cried Hildegarde. "She has so little pleasure, I suppose every little attention counts for a good deal. Oh, aren't you glad we sent her the Mechlin tabs? She and Hobson will have good times over them, I am sure. Well, Auntie, what now?"

Auntie brought in a huge box. "Dis ain't for you, Miss Hildy, chile, dis for you' Ma. You can' 'spec' to have everyt'ing, young lady!"

"Flowers, Mammina! Oh, the lovely things! Do let me see—From Mr. Raymond Ferrers! The dear thing! Why, we shall be a perfect bower, for I know the Colonel is going to send you a box. Dear me! What a delightful time we are having, aren't we, love?"

"If you don't eat your breakfast, Hilda, I shall have all these things taken away, and kept till dinner."

"Oh, I will eat, I will indeed! See me! Observe me sacrificing myself to rolls and orange marmalade! But do you see that it is snowing, my own? And do you know what that means? Tobogganing this afternoon, if there is any faith in Merryweathers."

Hildegarde was so excited it was really difficult for her to eat anything like enough to satisfy the demands of Auntie.

"You ain't goin' to no chu'ch on no empty stomick!" that potentate announced; and she actually stood over Hildegarde till a fair portion of her good things was disposed of. Then, when church-time came, she must see personally that both her "Missies" were properly wrapped, and properly toasted before going out.

"You ain't no right to go out at all, Mis' Grahame, and you knows it well as I do; but dere ain't no holdin' you some times, and dis is one of 'em, I know. Nothin' for old woman to do, 'cept just see dat you's fixed up right. You' bonnet ain't straight, mum; I should go crazy if you started out like ob dat."

The chore-man had already been at work with shovel and broom, so that there was a path cleared through the snow to the road; the snow was already quite deep, and Hildegarde and her mother were glad of their high snow-boots, as they picked their way along. Hildegarde stopped every other moment to take a handful of snow from some hanging branch, sometimes to eat it, oftener to toss it in the air for pure joy. It was beautiful snow, soft and dry, the crystals showing with exquisite distinctness.

"I feel about ten years old, darling!" the girl announced, as she frisked hither and thither.

"So I perceive!" said Mrs. Grahame, who was walking soberly along, even deigning to protect her bonnet with a prosaic umbrella.

"I feel rather doubtful about taking you, Hildegarde. Suppose you should turn round and smile at the little boy behind you, as you did the first time I took you to church!"

But by the time they reached the old stone church, Hildegarde was grave enough. This was the best of all, she said to herself, as she took her place in the choir, and heard Bell's firm touch on the keys of the organ behind her.

The Pastoral Symphony! Hildegarde gave a long sigh of pure happiness, and leaned back in her seat. She might have known Bell would play it! She knew that her friend was to take the organist's place during the Christmas vacation; but she did not know that somehow, in all the hurry and happy bustle of yesterday, two young musicians had contrived, by hook or by crook, to get an hour's practice together in the church, as a Christmas surprise for her very own self, and when, above the deep, throbbing tones of the organ, rose the exquisite voice of the violin, Hildegarde felt her cup very full indeed, and hardly tried to check the thankful tears that sprang to her eyes. The church was full of the warm fragrance of balsam fir; the long garlands of green clothed the old gray walls with a lovely grace; she saw her mother's face in the pew near by; the music soared heavenward and her soul mounted with it. "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good-will to men!" When it came her turn to sing, she felt heaven near, indeed, and the peace of blessedness descending on her.

By noon it had stopped snowing; by three o'clock the sky was clear and the world lay white and glittering, a new thing under a sky of crystal.

"Just like the biggest plummy cake that ever was baked!" cried Willy Merryweather as he capered about before his toboggan. The clan was gathering for the first tobogganing of the season. Here was Mr. Merryweather, tall and stalwart, in a fur cap big enough for the Czar of all the Russias; Here were all the children, big and little, in "muffs and furs and fluffs," all rosy and happy and beaming; here was Hildegarde, in moccasins, and the prettiest scarlet blanket-suit; finally, here was Jack Ferrers, striding across the fields at a tremendous rate when he saw that the others were waiting for him.

"Oh, Jack! couldn't Hugh come?" cried Hildegarde, as her cousin came up. "He looked pretty pale this morning, I thought, dear little fellow! Is he feeling badly to-day?"

Hugh had not been like himself since the fall on the ice. He had a good deal of headache, and seemed heavy and drowsy, not at all his own bright self. Hildegarde spoke anxiously, and Jack answered her look as well as her question.

"Not much the matter, I hope, but Uncle Tom thought he'd better keep quiet this afternoon, so as to be all fit for the tree this evening. His head does ache, Hilda, but he says it isn't bad, and he sent you all kinds of messages, and said you were to have twice as good a time, for his sake, as you would have had if he had been on hand. Poor little chap! I promised him I would give you a famous time; so come on, Hilda, and don't let me see those grave looks any more."

"You are darkening the sky, Hilda," cried Gerald, "and we can't have our Christmas sunshine spoiled! Look at the Pater! Isn't he immense? Like a Russian Boyar, or a Wallachian Hospodar, or something of that kind."

"We might all find some good, snowy title!" said Bell. "You shall be a Starosta, Jerry, and Phil a Voevoda, and Mr. Ferrers a Magyar."

"Oh, there are plenty more titles!" said Jack. "We must have a Sotnik, and a Hetman, and a—"

"Who is coming tobogganing?" cried Mr. Merryweather. "Is this a conversazione, or an expedition?"

They all started off, talking and laughing, for the nearest hill. They chose the well-known slope that swept round the foot of Braeside, beyond the stone wall that separated it from Roseholme. Climbing the slope, Hildegarde remembered the first time she had climbed it, and how she climbed a tree, too, and was caught by Colonel Ferrers in the act, and taken for a marauding boy. How long ago it all seemed; and how strange to think of their ever having been strangers to their dear Colonel, or to any of the good friends who had grown so near and so dear.

At the top, they paused to draw breath, for the ascent was steep; then Mr. Merryweather, as commander-in-chief, marshalled his forces, and arranged them in line of march.

"Let me see! Hilda, will you come with me? and Gertrude? So! Now, Phil, you shall take Bell and Kitty; and you and Mr. Ferrers, Gerald, take the little one. There! How will that do?"

All declared themselves satisfied, and proceeded to take their places on the toboggans. The girls tucked up their skirts carefully, the boys pressed their caps down firmly over their ears.

"All ready?" asked the Chief. "Now then! one, two, three—off!"

Down swept the toboggans; down, down, down! Hildegarde was clutching Mr. Merryweather's leather belt, and she felt as if it were the only thing that kept her from flying off entirely. The swift motion took her breath away; the light snow, puffing in her face, rising up in clouds on every side, half blinded her. On and on, gliding now over the long meadow at the foot of the hill, still with the flight of an arrow; till at last, with a skilful turn, they were brought up alongside the stone wall that bounded the field, and landed in a good soft drift.

Up they all jumped, rosy and snow-powdered, shouting with glee.

"Oh! wasn't it glorious!" cried Hildegarde. "We kept the lead, didn't we, Mr. Merryweather? And I kept the top of my head on, which is more than could have been expected. I really never felt anything so delightful in my life. Where are Jack and Gerald?"

"There they come! They went round the other way, down the steep side."

"The steep side! Oh, me! Is there a steeper side? Why, they must have turned somersaults all the way down. Oh! oh, my poor dears!"

The boys came round the curve in fine style, shooting straight as a dart, both leaning back, and evidently enjoying themselves to the full. Suddenly, as if propelled by some invisible engine, they shot into the air, the toboggan followed, and for a moment there was an extraordinary vision of legs and arms, caps and splinters, all whirling together. Then they plunged into an enormous drift, and disappeared.

The girls cried out in terror, but Mr. Merryweather and Phil shouted with laughter, and ran to the spot.

"Gone to ground!" they cried. "Dig 'em out, Phil!" cried the Chief. "Here's a foot; give a good pull, now!"

Phil gave a vigorous pull, and was rewarded by a kick which sent him sprawling on his back in the snow. Then, laughing and spluttering, the boys emerged from the drift, rubbing the snow from their eyes, and shaking it from their clothing.

"I say!" cried Jack. "What do you keep in this field, sir? Was it a torpedo, or an electric eel?"

"It's your uncle's field, young man!" replied Mr. Merryweather. "I suspect it was nothing more than a rock, however. I thought the hill was all smooth grass."

"You might try it, sir!" said Gerald. "If there is a sound bone in my body, write me down Hollander. How are you, Ferrers? Anything broken?"

"No, indeed! Lost a button, and—where is my other mitten? Oh! thank you, Hilda! Did we make a pretty picture, flying through the air?"

"Lovely!" said Hilda. "If I had only had my camera! But I was really frightened. I am hardly sure now that you are not killed, you did go so very hard!"

"The toboggan is killed!" said Gerald, ruefully. "Kindling-wood, poor old thing! Just look at it!" He dragged to light some forlorn remnants, which certainly did not look as if they could be of service again save in some humble capacity.

"Too bad!" said his father. "Fortune of war, my boy! But there is plenty of room for you and Ferrers on the two others. We must see about this stone, and get it out of the way."

Search revealed a big, jagged stone, so fitted into the slope of the hill that the snow had lain smoothly over it; but it had caught the toboggan in mid-flight. It was soon torn from its bed, rolled down the hill, and deposited on the other side of the wall. Then they all climbed the hill again, trying as they went to sing the Tobogganing Song; failing for lack of breath, panting, singing again, and all the while struggling upward, laughing and chattering and pelting each other with the soft snow.

"When the field lies clear in the moon, boy,
And the wood hangs dark on the hill,
When the long white way shows never a sleigh,
And the sound of the bells is still,

"Then hurry, hurry, hurry!
And bring the toboggans along!
A last 'Never fear!' to Mother-my-dear,
Then off with a shout and a song.

"A-tilt on the billowy slope, boy,
Like a boat that bends to the sea,
With the heart a-tilt in your breast, boy,
And your chin well down on your knee,

"Then over, over, over,
As the boat skims over the main,
A plunge and a swoop, a gasp and a whoop,
And away o'er the glittering plain!

"The boat, and the bird, and the breeze, boy,
Which the poet is apt to sing,
Are old and slow and clumsy, I know,
By us that have never a wing.

"Still onward, onward, onward,
Till the brook joins the meadow below,
And then with a shout, see us tumbling out,
To plunge in the feathery snow.

"Back now by the side of the hedge, boy,
Where the roses in summer grow,
Where the snow lies deep o'er their winter sleep,
Up, up the big hill we go.

"And stumbling, tumbling, stumbling,
Hurrah! 'tis the top we gain!
Draw breath for a minute before you begin it—
Now over, and over again!"

"How are you, noble Hetman?" said Hildegarde, finding herself near Gerald, as they gained the top of the hill. "Aren't you all full of snow, my poors, and very cold and wet?"

"'Oh, days of me boyhood, I'm dreamin' of ye now!'" quoted Gerald. "I never thought that my mother's words would come true in my person:

"And to speak sooth, sweet chuck, there may be a matter of half a bushel of snow—if you measure it by bushels,—it's a matter of fancy—down my manly back at this moment."

"Oh, Gerald! But do go home, my dear, and change your things! You will get your death of cold, if you go about in this state."

"I'll move into the adjoining territory at once!" said Gerald. "But calm yourself, angelic being! Consider that in this manner I avoid all danger of sunstroke! Every man his own refrigerator; patent applied for; no Irish need apply."

"What is the use of talking to people like this!" cried Hildegarde. "Jack, are you as wet as that? Because if you are,—"

"As wet as what?" said Jack. "I am not, anyhow, if you are going to look at me in that way. Just wet enough to cool me off delightfully; very sultry to-day, don't you think so?"

"Mr. Merryweather," cried Hildegarde. "Will you use your authority, please, and try to get some sense out of these boys? They are both wet through to the skin, and they will not—"

"Wet, are they?" said the Chief, cheerily. "Best thing in the world for 'em, my dear! Quicken the circulation, and keep the pores open. Now then, boys and girls, we must pack closer this time. Sit close, Kitty! Hilda, hold tight, my dear! All ready? Now, one, two, three, and off we go!"

And off they went.

CHAPTER XIV.

BELLEROPHON.

"All ready, boys?" asked the Colonel.

"All ready!" responded the boys, namely, Raymond Ferrers, aged sixty, Jack Ferrers, aged twenty, and Hugh Allen, aged nine. Barring more or less difference in height, and a trifle of gray hair in one case, they all appeared of much the same age; nor had the Colonel, evidently, a day the advantage of them. On the contrary, he was the youngest of the four, as he walked round and round the Christmas Tree, poking among the branches, readjusting a string of pop-corn here, or a glittering ornament there. It was their own tree, every twig, every needle of it their own. Not Hildegarde herself, nor her mother, nor any Merryweather, had had a word to say, or knew a single detail about it. They were invited,—they were coming; that was their part; all the rest had belonged to the four boys. Had they not gone in town together, and gone to Schwartz's, and bought out the greater part of the shop? And had they not spent the greater part of the day (save dinner-time, and church-time, and the hour that Jack had taken for tobogganing) in decorating their plaything, and tying on the presents? Surely, such a tree had never been seen! It glittered from top to toe with icicles; it shone with globes of gold and silver; it was powdered with diamond snow, and hung with golden nuts; silver cobwebs draped it, hanging in long festoons from every bough, while round and round, in graceful festoons, went the long garlands of snowy pop-corn. Now nothing was left to do, save to light the candles; and still the Colonel walked and looked, puffing with pleasure, and still Brother Raymond followed at his heels, and Jack followed Raymond, and Hugh kept close behind Jack. And Elizabeth Beadle, surveying this scene from the depth of the hall, was so moved by it that she retired to the kitchen and wept for a quarter of an hour, for pure joy.

"Sure you have the pail of water handy, Jack?"

"Yes, sir, quite sure! Stepped into it just now."

"Then you had it footy, not handy!" murmured Hugh. His guardian turned, and looked anxiously at the boy.

"Hum, ha!" he said. "Talk a little nonsense, eh, Young Sir? That's right! Feel quite well this evening, hey?"

Hugh certainly did not look well. His rosy color was gone, and there were dark circles under his blue eyes; but he answered so brightly, and was so full of joy and delightful anticipation, that Colonel Ferrers smiled even as he sighed, and turned to his brother.

"Pretty sight, Raymond?" he said, for perhaps the twentieth time. "Pretty custom, eh? Give you my word, sir, I haven't enjoyed anything so much for years."

"If you go on at this rate, Tom," rejoined his brother, "you will be in short jackets again in a year or two. After all, what is there in the world so good as youth, my dear fellow? Let us hold it fast, say I, as long as we can!"

"Yes!" growled the Colonel. "But you wouldn't have said that before you came here, Raymond Ferrers; and I shouldn't have said it before Hildegarde Grahame came here,—"

"And her mother!" put in Raymond.

"And her mother, of course!" cried the Colonel, testily. "She never thought of coming here without her mother, did she? Don't be a quibbler, my good fellow! If there is one thing I find it difficult to have Christian patience with, it is a quibbler. I tell you, sir, that before those people came here my life was a stagnant fish-pond, sir; with no fish in it, either, and—and it shows what a young woman can do, sir, when she is willing just to be a young woman, and to minister cheerfulness and joy and—and affection to the people around her. Three years ago I had not a friend in the world,—or thought I had not, which amounts to the same thing,—except a round-shouldered fiddle-maker in another State, whom I never expected to see again. I was morose, sir! I was unfit for human companionship! And now—" the Colonel stopped to wipe his eye-glasses, and blew his nose portentously—"now I have a son in my own house,—two sons just now, for if you pretend that Jack is more your son than mine, I scoff at you, sir, and I deride you!—and a daughter close by, who will come to me if my little finger aches. And to that daughter, sir,—under Providence," and the Colonel bowed his head and dropped his voice,—"to Hildegarde Grahame, I owe all this, and more. So I say,—"

"Here they come!" cried Hugh, who had been watching from the window. "Here they all come, Guardian! My Beloved and her mother, and after them all the others. Oh! but Captain Roger is not with them!"

The four hosts hurried out into the hall to meet their guests, and many and warm were the greetings. Hildegarde in white, Bell in pink, and Gertrude in blue, looked like a posy of fresh flowers, and Kitty like the little rosebud she was. Mrs. Merryweather and Mrs. Grahame were already taking off their wraps, and Miles Merryweather and Phil brought up the rear, with Willy.

"Where's the Professor?" cried the hospitable Colonel, rubbing his hands. "Where is Professor Roger? I was definitely promised that he would be here."

Where was Roger? Hildegarde's heart echoed the question; and though she greeted the Colonel with her own bright smile, it was rather an effort to be as gay as usual; for the disappointment had been severe. Roger had telegraphed that he would be with them that afternoon without fail; and now all the trains had come and gone, and no Roger had come. All the Merryweathers were crying out, and saying that some tiresome man of science must have captured him, and carried him off. Hildegarde was only a little more silent than usual; she slipped quietly into the drawing-room, and took her seat by Mr. Raymond Ferrers, whose smile always seemed like a kind of sublimated music,—music that soothed while it cheered. But when she saw her little Hugh, with his pale face, and the suffering look in his dear blue eyes, she reproached herself for a selfish, unloving girl, and went and sat with her arm round the child, looking affectionately and anxiously at him, and listening to his story of the joy of the blessed day.

"And Gerald?" now cried the Colonel. "Am I to be robbed of half my guests, I ask you? Mrs. Merryweather, my dear madam, this is positively unfriendly, I must inform you. A Christmas Tree without Gerald Merryweather,—the idea is incongruous! I can say nothing more."

"Oh, Colonel Ferrers, that is my fault!" cried Hildegarde. "Gerald will be here in a moment; he ought to be here now, indeed. I very carelessly forgot something,—a little parcel that I wanted to bring,—and Gerald was so kind as to go back for it."

"Quite right, my child!" said the Colonel. "Of course you sent him! Preposterous if you had done anything else." He bustled off, and Hildegarde turned to look out of the window; for truth to tell, the parcel that she had left behind contained a little gift for the Colonel himself (it was a copy of "Underwoods." Hildegarde would have given copies of "Underwoods" to all her friends, if she could have afforded it), and she wanted to catch the first glimpse of Gerald. How long he was in coming! They were lighting the candles, Hugh whispered her; Jack and Mr. Raymond Ferrers and Mr. Merryweather were to light them as soon as the party was assembled. Gerald was wanted to take the second tenor in the carol. Why had she been so careless? Ah! there he was at last!

Hildegarde ran out to the porch, to receive the precious parcel.

"Oh," she cried, "how long you have been, child! I thought you would never come!"

"So did I," said a voice that certainly did not belong to Gerald, "but that is no reason why you should be out here with nothing on your head, and the thermometer at zero."

Hildegarde felt her two hands grasped, and herself drawn firmly back into the house.

"They do not take proper care of you!" said Roger. "And are you glad to see me, Hilda?"

Everything seemed misty to Hildegarde after that. She heard the welcomes and rejoicings; heard Gerald's voice of panting apology,—"Couldn't keep up with the Codger, you know! Couldn't, 'pon my word, he was in such a hurry!"—and received the Colonel's book in time to tie it on the tree. She took her part in the carol, too, and wondered that her voice should be so strong, and not tremble, as the rest of her seemed to be trembling. Yes, and she saw the glorious Tree, in all its splendour, and helped untie the presents, and sat with her lap full of pretty things, sharing the wild delight of Will and Kitty, and the quieter raptures of Hugh.

Yes, the lion was truly splendid; she had never heard such a roar, or seen such a mane. She should really be afraid to come to Pumpkin House, if she would be in danger of meeting him on the stairs. And Hugh's fleet was a joy, and,—yes, certainly they would go sailing together; and they'd go to the Dee, and the Jellybolee, over the land and over the sea—

And all the time, the girl felt that she was in a dream, in which the only real thing was the tall, broad-shouldered figure that moved so lightly and cheerfully among the rest; was the deep, sweet voice that was talking, explaining, parrying, the attack of the Colonel and all his own family?

"Well, but it is true, my dear Miranda. I could not have helped it; really I could not. No, I dined with no other friends. I dined on a cold sausage, at a railway restaurant. I have travelled day and night to get here, and I do not mean to be abused for my efforts. There was a railway accident,—"

"An accident! Oh, Roger! are you hurt? Where are you hurt? How did it happen? Tell us all about it? Whose fault was it? Was any one killed?"

Thus the Merryweathers in chorus, with Colonel Ferrers thundering a bass. Roger Merryweather looked from one to the other; his eyes twinkled, but he was silent.

"Well, sir?" cried his brother Miles, in a fine baritone solo.

"Well, sir!" retorted Roger. "I thought you were all doing it so beautifully, it was a pity to interrupt. No,—no one was hurt. A freight train broke down, and blocked all the trains on the road. The delay was apparently endless; there seemed no particular reason why we should ever go on. Finally, I ran ahead, and found the engineer of the night express, the first train in the block, fighting mad, and vowing that he would plough his way through the freight train, if they didn't get it out of the road in five minutes. A lot of us took hold in good earnest, and in ten minutes the track was free. Then the express driver found that his fireman was hurt,—I forgot him! He was really the only one,—and he was madder than ever, and said he could not go on without a fireman. So I said I was his fireman, and his long-lost uncle besides; and I jumped on, and off we went. It was an exhilarating ride. We were an hour late, and we made up half of it; but that did not let me make my connections. Finally, here am I; the question is, are you glad to see me, or shall I go back?"

Well, there seemed little doubt that they were glad to see him. It seemed to Hildegarde, still sitting in her corner, with Hugh's hand in hers, as if the other children would fairly devour him; and the elders were not much better. Miles must hear all about the mines, and piled question upon question till his brother cried for mercy. Will and Kitty hung about his neck, Bell and Gertrude could hardly take their eyes off him. Only Gerald, after the first moment, came and sat by Hildegarde, and asked if he should not take Hugh, and if she did not want to go and join the others.

"No!" cried Hildegarde. "Go yourself, Jerry, and hear all about it. I—I shall hear it all another time."

"I met him, you see!" said Gerald, guiltily. "I heard it all as—as we came from the other house. We came along together, and then he—he got ahead of me somehow, and came in first."

Hildegarde heard him, but only half understood what he said. Now, however, there came a change in the boy's voice, and he rose hastily.

"I—I think I will go, Hilda, if you really don't mind,—if you will excuse me. I think Phil wants me for something—"

He vanished, and Hildegarde turned to find Roger at her elbow.

"I have a little gift for you," he was saying. "I—I won't give it to you to-night, I think, but bring it to-morrow, if I may. It is something I made myself, and I am rather proud of it. May I come to-morrow morning? Oh, it is good to be at home again! Good to see what one has been dreaming about for all these—"

"Supper! supper!" cried the Colonel, rubbing his hands. "Come, young folks! the tree is stripped, and now for an honest, old-fashioned supper. None of your kickshaws and folderols! No flummery, that leaves a man tired and hungry when he leaves the table. Food, my dear madam, is one of the blessings—what was it this Boy said about food the other day, Raymond? Hugh, you understand, Mrs. Grahame; more and more astonishing that child grows, as he grows older. He was disappointed the other day,—Hildegarde could not come as he expected, or something happened,—hum, ha! And he was distressed; a good deal distressed. Then he ate his supper,—ate it like a man, and I told him so, sir, and congratulated him on keeping his appetite. He looks up at me, and says he, 'Food stops sorrow!' His very expression, give you my word! Food stops sorrow! Ha, ha! so it does, my dear madam, so it does! This way, if you please! Hildegarde, my child, you will bring the Boy? He is—hum, ha!—not quite up to concert pitch to-night. Nothing much the matter,—growing boys, eh, Mrs. Grahame? Come on, all hands!"

Well, the supper was great, and the games were glorious. Hildegarde did her very best to appear just as usual, and, indeed, no one who had seen her flying down the long drawing-room in the Virginia reel (the Colonel had engaged her for it a month before) would have thought her anything but the gayest of the gay; but, happy though she was, the world still seemed misty, the rooms confused, the talk mere babble; and she was glad, for once, when the frolic was over, and the greetings said, and she was at home once more, in her own quiet room.

There was a cosy little fire burning on the hearth, and late though it was, Hildegarde was in no mood for going to bed. She sat down by the window and looked out. The snow lay clear and white in the moonlight; here and there the dark evergreens rose like steadfast guardians; all was peaceful and lovely. Lovely! How brown and handsome he looked! And had he really been glad to see her? She thought so; yes, surely he was glad, only somebody interrupted him every time he came near her. Of course, selfish creature that she was! They were his own dear people, he was theirs; he belonged to them. They had not seen him for months, and how preposterous of her to expect to have any of his time the very first evening. Besides, he said particularly that he was coming in the morning. Would the day be fair? But men did not mind weather, certainly not the Merryweather men. And—and her mother would be so glad to have a good talk with him.

Were they all asleep now, the good, merry neighbours? They made a good deal of noise sometimes, but they all meant so well, and were so hearty and genuine. Gerald was the most like Roger, after all; she had never noticed before how much alike they were. Dear Jerry! He had always been her favourite, though Phil was as nice as he could be, and, of course, she was very, very fond of Bell, and all of them. How perfectly clear and still it was! Silver and pearl and diamond,—oh, what beauty!