to it;” but Hildegarde liked the ironing, and took as much pride—­ or nearly as much—­in her own hems and ruffles as she did in the delicate laces which she “did up” for her mother.  Her dress this evening was sheer white lawn, and she had a white rose in her hair, and another in her belt, and, altogether, she was pleasant to look upon.  Gerald Merryweather, who with his brother was making his way along another path in the same direction, saw the girl, and straightway glowed with all the ardour of seventeen.

“I say!” he exclaimed, under his breath, “isn’t she stunning?  Look, Ferg, you old ape!  Ever see anything like that?”

Ferguson, who was of a cooler temperament, replied without enthusiasm, maintaining that there had been, in the history of womankind, maidens as beautiful as Miss Grahame, or even more so.  Becoming warm in the discussion, the two grappled, and rolled over and over at Hildegarde’s feet.  She gave a little scream, and then laughed.  “Any one hurt?” she asked.  “If not, perhaps I had better brush you off a bit before we go into the house.”

“A nice opinion you will have of us, Miss Grahame,” said Gerald, as he stood still to be brushed.  “We can stand straight, and walk, too, like other people, though you may not believe it.  But, you see, Ferguson is so exasperating that he disturbs my equilibrium, and then I have to disturb his, that we may continue in brotherly companionship.  He was just saying that the sun was no brighter than the stars.”

“No more it is, I suppose,” said unconscious Hildegarde, “if you are only near enough to one, or far enough from the other.  Shall I brush you, too, Mr. Ferg—­I beg your pardon, Mr. Merryweather?”

“Oh,” cried Gerald, dancing on one foot, “observe his blushes!  Observe the cabbage rose in all its purple pride!  Isn’t he lovely?  But you are not going to call us ‘Mister,’ in earnest, Miss Grahame?  You cannot have the heart!  We are not accustomed to it, and there is no knowing what effect it may have on my ardent nature, or on Ferguson’s flabby disposition.”  Ferguson extended a long arm and shook his brother with calm energy, till his teeth rattled together.

“Really, if you wouldn’t, please,” he said, in his quiet voice.  “Gerald is a lunatic, of course, and ought to be kept in a barrel and fed through the bung-hole,—­only my mother has scruples; but we are ‘just the boys,’ and nobody ever does call us by handles, you see.  So if you wouldn’t mind—­”

“I shall be delighted!” said Hildegarde.  “Bell and I have already come to first names, and I am sure you boys are both too jolly to be ceremonious with; so—­Gerald, here we are at the house, and now you really will have to stay right side up, with care.”

They went together into the wide, bare hall, with its dark panels hung with family portraits.  Colonel Ferrers came to meet them, erect and soldierly.  He kissed Hildegarde’s cheek, and greeted the boys with a cordial shake of the hand.