"No, dear, no! Thank you just as much; but it was none of those. This only shows, dear Hildegarde, the dreadful misfortune of being unmethodical. I have no manner of doubt that I have wasted at least ten good years of life in looking for things. My sister-in-law, now, could find a needle in a top bureau drawer at midnight, without a moment's hesitation. It is a gift! I trust you cultivate—now, you see, I may spend half the morning hunting for this letter, when I might—what amuses you, my dear?"
For Hildegarde's eyes were dancing, and her whole face eloquent of fun.
"Dear Mrs. Merryweather,—I know you will excuse me,—but is not that the letter, pinned to your dress? It looks like Gertrude's handwriting."
Mrs. Merryweather looked down, and gave a sigh of relief.
"My child, your coming in was providential, nothing less. Of course, I remember now, I pinned it there for fear I should do—what I thought I had done. Well, well! and it is a Roman sash that the child wants,—I am sure I should never have thought of that. Ah, dear! I do miss my girls, Hildegarde. You see, they inherit from their father a sense of order,—in a measure,—and they help me a great deal. Are my glasses on my forehead, dear? Whereas Gerald and Phil are rather like me, I am afraid. I wonder if Gerald has found his waistcoat yet? He is wearing—ah, there he is now! Gerald, you are really an object for a circus, my son."
"'CONSIDER THE BEAUTY OF YOUR OFFSPRING.'"
Gerald looked down thoughtfully at himself. He was attired in white corduroy knickerbockers, an ancient swallow-tail coat so large that it hung in folds upon him, and a red velvet waistcoat reaching to his knee.
"I hesitated about coming in," he said. "Hildegarde is so susceptible, I fear the impression I shall make upon her tender heart. The lily is painted, the fine gold is gilded. Hilda, confess that I am the dream of your existence."
"What does it mean?" asked Hildegarde, laughing.