“Very proper!” said Hilda.  “I am glad to find that you know your ballads.  What else will you do with it, for example?”

    “Wi’ ae lock o’ thy yellow hair
     I’ll theek my nest when it grows bare!”

Gerald went on.  “The excelsior is coming out of my mattress, and I thought—­”

“I can’t spare enough for that,” said Hildegarde.  “Any other uses for my poor hair?”

“The Mater has a single hair of George Washington’s, done up in a gold snuffbox,” cried the boy.  “If you’ll give me two, I will hunt up a snuffbox.  There’s a fine old stingo in the Chemical Works who takes snuff, and I will get his, and give him a tomato can instead, and keep one hair in that.”

“And the other?” Hilda persisted, taking the long tresses in her hand, and running them through her fingers in a tantalizing manner,—­“the other hair, Master Obadiah?”

“Oh, dear! what a persistent thing a girl is!  I—­must you really know?  Because you mightn’t like it, if I told you the truth.”  The ingenuous youth here turned a somersault, and coming up on one knee, remained in an attitude of supplication, clasping his hands imploringly.  Hilda laughed, but still caressed her locks, unmoved.

“The other hair!” she said.

“Well, if you must know, I want to make a new kind of fly for the bass.  They aren’t biting at all, and your hair is just the colour, to a shade.  There! that is the terewth.  Do you mind?”

“Mind, you foolish boy?  You might have had your fly made by this time.  Here, give me your knife!”

She stood still, and severed a long, fair tress, which she laid in Gerald’s hand.

“There! that will make a whole swarm of flies; and if there is any left over, you can theek your nest with it.”

At this moment she looked up and saw the Professor sitting on the verandah, watching her.  Her face lighted up with the brightest smile, Roger thought, that he had ever seen, and she hastened forward.

“Oh, Captain!  I was afraid I was too late.  Aren’t you going to take observations this morning?  And mayn’t I go too?  Here is my towel, all ready.”

Gerald clapped his hand to his face, with an exclamation of acute pain.

“My dear boy, what is the matter?” cried his mother and Hildegarde in one breath.

“It is—­nothing!” gasped the boy, sitting down on the edge of the verandah.  “Where is the glue?”

“The glue!” repeated Hilda.

“Le Page’s glue!  My nose has become disjointed, and I would fain repair it.  I am suffering excruciating torments; but don’t mind me.  Go on your towelled and triumphant way, and leave the noseless wretch to pine alone!”

“And make his flies!” said Hilda.  “You miserable boy, you really took me in.  Good-by, dear madam; I will get Bell, and we will surely be home in time for dinner this time.  Won’t we, Captain?” But the Captain did not commit himself.