THE MYSTERIES OF FERNLEY
"Now, Uncle John!"
"Now, Margaret!"
"Don't be tormenting, sir! You know that you promised us a new Mystery of Fernley, if we would all be good. We have been good; virtue shines from every one of us, doesn't it, Hugh?"
"My eyes are dazzled," replied her cousin. "Most of it seems to come from the feminine side of the house, though, I fear. All that the boys and I have done has been to abstain from actual crime."
"Oh, cherries!" said Phil.
"Up into the tree of cherry,
Who should climb but little Jerry?"
"Pooh! pooh!" said Mr. Montfort. "What are cherries for except to eat, I should like to know? Yes, you have all been good children, and it is true that I promised—something. Sit down now, all of you, and I will tell you the story of the Lost Casket."
The young people clustered about him, sitting on the floor, on cushions and footstools, on anything rather than the prosaic seat of an ordinary chair. Mr. Montfort looked around on their bright, eager faces. Margaret sat next him, his own Margaret, fair and sweet in her white dress, with the bright, joyous look that had grown so habitual to her of late. Next to her was Gerald Merryweather; it struck Mr. Montfort suddenly that Gerald Merryweather usually was beside Margaret. Beyond them again, Peggy and Jean, with Phil between them; Phil, who as yet preferred his sister Gertrude's society to that of any girl he had ever seen. At the other side of the ring, Grace Wolfe, sitting a little apart, with the curious air of solitariness that seemed to surround her even in company. Hugh Montfort was not far off, though, and his deep brown eyes were gazing at her intently.
"Once upon a time," Mr. Montfort began, and was greeted with a chorus of disappointment. "Oh, Uncle John! You said it was true."