Roger Merryweather stood silent.  The habit of giving way to others, of letting the youngsters have all the pleasure possible, and taking the workaday parts of life for himself, was strong upon him.  And when had he refused his brother Miles anything?

Miles Merryweather nodded in satisfaction, and went into the house to get his letters.

“I am going to send Phil in with Hilda, instead of Roger,” he announced, cheerfully.  “Is there anything—­”

“Oh, father, how could you?” cried Bell, springing to her feet.

“How could I what?” asked her father.  “Miranda, have you any errands for Phil to do?”

He looked at his wife, and opened his eyes wide; for the placid woman was ruffling all over, like an angry partridge.

“Don’t speak to me, Miles Merryweather!” she cried.  “Don’t dare to say a word to me!  You are a great stupid, stupid,—­and Roger is another!  Why I ever married into such a family—­”

She ruffled away out of the house; Bell hurried after her without a word, only casting a reproachful glance at her father as she went.  Mr. Merryweather stood still in utter bewilderment.

“Are these people mad?” he said.  “What on earth is the matter?  Gerald, will you give these letters to Phil, and tell him—­now what is the matter with you, I should like to know?”

For Gerald’s bright face was clouded over with unmistakable ill-humour,—­a circumstance so amazing that one might well wonder.  He actually scowled at his father, whom he adored.

“Donki foolumque cano!” he said.  “No disrespect to anybody, sir, but I am thinking of emigrating.  This family is too much for me.”

He stalked out again, leaving Mr. Merryweather more puzzled than ever.

“Decidedly, they are mad!” he murmured.  “Thank goodness, there is one sensible head among all these feathertops!  Oh, here you are, Roger!  Give these letters to Phil, will you, please, and tell him not to forget the mail.”

Roger took the letters, and laughed.  His cheek was slightly flushed, and his eyes danced with something very unlike their usual calm intelligence.  “All right!” he said.  “Give me the letters, Miles.  They shall be mailed.”  He took the packet, and started to leave the room, but turned back for a moment, to lay his hand affectionately on his brother’s shoulder.  “I am a codger, Miles,” he said, “but—­do you know—­I think you are a bit of a codger, too.  It runs in the blood, I suppose.  Good-by, old fellow! and let the Keewaydin wait until to-morrow, will you?”

He ran out.  His brother, now speechless, followed him:  saw him put Phil aside with a word and a smile; saw him lift Hildegarde lightly into the wagon, and take his seat beside her; saw the girl, her face bright as a flower, leaning forward to say farewell, and the other faces crowding round her, eager, loving, sorrowful; saw handkerchiefs and caps waving, and heard the cries of “Good-by, dear Hilda!  Come again!  Oh, come back to us soon!”