“Anybody hurt?” asked Roger, going to
pick them up.
“Oh no!” said Bell, sitting up and shaking
the pine needles from her hair. “Toots
was underneath, and she makes a noble cushion.
All right, Toots? and how do you come here, Professor?”
The three fallen ones righted themselves, and sat
up and panted; seeing which, the others came and sat
down, too, and for a space no one spoke, for no one
had any breath save Roger, and he was laughing.
“I have been botanizing,” he said at last.
“I was coming quietly along, when suddenly Bedlam
broke loose, and I have been standing by to go about
ever since. No extra lunatics seemed to be needed,
or I should have been charmed to assist.”
By this time Hildegarde had recovered her composure.
It was her fate, she reflected, to run into people,
and be found in trees, and be caught playing “Sally
Waters;” she could not help her fate. But
her hair was all down her back, and she could help
that. She began to knot it up quietly, but Gerald
raised a cry of protest.
“What, oh what is she doing that for? Don’t,
Miss Hildegarde, please! I was just thinking
how jolly it looked, let alone the chances for scalping.”
“Thank you!” said Hildegarde, as she wound
up the long locks and fastened them securely.
“I have no fancy for playing Absalom all the
way home. Have you hurt your foot, Phil?”
for Phil was rubbing his ankle vigorously, and looking
rather uncomfortable.
“I stumbled over Dropsy’s nose,”
he said, ruefully. “When she fell down,
her nose reached all the way round the tree, and tripped
me up. I wish you would keep your nose in curl-papers,
Dropsy.”
Dropsy beat him affectionately, and helped rub his
ankle. They were silent for a moment, being too
comfortable to speak, each one thought to himself.
The sunbeams flickered through the leaves; the pine
needles, tossed into heaps by the hurrying feet, gave
out their delicious fragrance; overhead the wind murmured
low in the branches. It was a perfect time, and
even Gerald felt the charm and was silent, throwing
acorns at his sisters.
“Sing, Roger,” said Bell, at length, softly.
“Sing ‘Robin Hood!’”
So Roger sang, in a noble baritone voice, that joyous
song of the forest, and the woods rang to the chorus:
“So, though bold Robin’s
gone,
Yet his heart lives
on,
And we drink to him
with three times three.”
“Hands across the sea.”
“Oh, how jolly you all look!” cried Hildegarde,
peeping through the hedge. “Where are you
going?”
The Merryweathers were going to ride; so much was
evident. Five bicycles stood at the door, glittering
in the sunlight; five riders were in the act of mounting,
plainly bound on a pleasure-trip.
“Only for the mail, and a little spin after
it,” cried Mr. Merryweather. “Wish
you could come too, Miss Grahame. You will certainly
have to get a wheel and join us. Nothing like
it, I assure you.”
