“Do whistle another piece, Miss Sherwood,” said Susan.  “It will give us great pleasure to hear you.”

Lancy turned over the leaves of a book, then placed it on the piano, saying: 

“Try that, Dexie, and I’ll whistle with you.”

It would be hard to express the pleasure that this exquisite bird-song gave to those who listened.  All the songsters in the woods seemed let loose in the room, now singing together in full chorus, then singly or in pairs they twittered and trilled as Dexie’s soft whistle followed or joined Lancy’s stronger notes, while such bird-like notes came from the keys before her as might have deceived the very birds themselves.

“Nothing will surprise me after this,” cried Susan, when the song had ended.  “I heard my music-teacher play that once, and I thought it the tamest thing I had ever heard; of course he did not try to whistle it too, but the music itself sounded quite different.”

“Perhaps your music-teacher never took the trouble to listen to the birds themselves; that makes a difference, you know,” said Dexie.

Just then Mrs. Taylor came into the room, saying: 

“I think you must come to dinner, but you must give us some more music afterwards.  Really, Susan, that old piano is not such a poor affair, after all; is it, now?”

CHAPTER IX.

As was expected, they found there was much anxiety at home over their long absence.  Mr. Sherwood was on the watch when the sleigh drove up, and was beside it in time to help the muffled figures alight, and anxious to hear the particulars of their protracted drive.

“Let me go into Mrs. Gurney’s just a minute, papa,” said Dexie, “and I will tell you all about it when I come back.”

Then they found themselves pulled through the hall by the eager children, who had been watching for their appearance for hours, and into the sitting-room where Mrs. Gurney sat with a white, anxious face, waiting their arrival.

In a few minutes the story of their detention was told, Lancy telling his part and Elsie hers, Dexie finishing the story by confessing to the extreme measures used to keep Elsie awake, not sparing herself in the least when telling of the quarrel she had provoked, and there was a suspicious moisture in Mr. Gurney’s eyes as he listened to the story.

“You have been in great peril,” said he, as he drew the girls to his side.  “Let us all kneel a moment and return thanks for the safety of these dear ones;” and all knelt, just as they were:  Mr. Gurney with one arm around Elsie, the other around Dexie; Lancy with his fur coat still on, and the whip in his hand; the little ones, who had pressed into the room, dropped to their knees, their arms full of toys; Mrs. Gurney with the baby in her arms—­all knelt, while a few earnest words went up from a father’s grateful heart.

Mrs. Gurney insisted that Elsie should go up to bed at once, and be doctored for the cold she had evidently contracted, and pressing a kiss on Dexie’s cheek, she followed her daughter upstairs.