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!

"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:

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

"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."

"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:

"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:

"It gives me mine, though!" said Phil. And he sang, merrily:

"Phil!" cried Gertrude. "How can you? Comic opera is an insult to a moon like this."

"Oh, indeed!" said her brother. "Sorry I spoke. Next time I'll sing it to some other moon,—one of Jupiter's; or the brick one in Doctor Hale's story. Go on, Toots, since you are so superior. It's your turn."

"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 passed 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 bass and silvery tenor, the glorious old camp song of the German wars:

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:

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

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:

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:

"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 noble 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.

"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 ass,—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."

Bell asked no more questions: the johnny-cake seemed to be at a critical point; she stirred assiduously, and Jack, turning to look at her, could see only the tip of a very rosy little ear under the brown, clustering hair.

There was another silence, broken only by the singing of the teakettle and the soft, thick "hub-bubble" of the boiling porridge.

"Bell!" said Jack, presently.

"Yes, Jack."

"I had another letter last night, that I haven't told you about yet."

"From Hilda?"

"No. From the manager of the Arion Quartette. They want me to go on a tour with them in the autumn, before the Conservatory opens. It's a great chance, and they offer me twice what I am worth."

"Oh, Jack!" cried Bell, turning her face, shining with pleasure, full on him. "How glorious! how perfectly glorious! Oh! this is great news indeed."

"There is only one difficulty," said Jack. "I have to provide my own accompanist."

"But you can easily do that!" said Bell.

"Can I?" cried Jack Ferrers, dropping the porridge spoon and coming forward, his two hands held out, his brown face in a glow. "Can I, Bell? There is only one accompanist in the world for me, and I want her for life. Can I have her, my dear?"

"Oh, Jack!" cried Bell, and another spoon was dropped.

"Children, you are letting that porridge burn!" cried Mrs. Merryweather, as she hurried into the kitchen a few minutes later.

"Oh, Mammy, I am so sorry!" said Bell, looking up,

"Oh, Mammy, I am so glad!" cried Jack Ferrers; and without more ado he kissed Mrs. Merryweather. "I like burnt porridge!" said this young gentleman.