"Jerusalem!" said Philip Merryweather.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who? Miss Peggy? I don't—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Ape?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"The Horny? Not—"

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

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

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

"No!"

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

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

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

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

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

A faint color crept into Hugh's brown cheek.

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

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

She was springing away, but Hugh called her back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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