"Trunks not come yet; not mine, at least. Upset a bath-tub over my only suit this morning,—lo, the result! Wouldst not that I were ever habited thus, mirific Mammy? Consider the beauty of your offspring."
He seated himself on his mother's desk, drawing the folds of the dress-coat about him, and beamed upon her.
"If you would send him away, dear Mrs. Merryweather," said Hildegarde, "I should be so glad to help you a little with the papers and books. I have a whole hour to spare,—do let me help!"
"My dear, I should be only too thankful," said Mrs. Merryweather. "Jerry, go away, and find something to do! You might unpack the blankets, like a dear."
But Gerald declared that a wet blanket was the only one with which he had any concern after this cruel treatment, and retired weeping bitterly, wiping his eyes with a long coat-tail.
Hildegarde devoted the morning to helping her friends, and when she went home at noon the rooms wore a very different aspect. The books were all off the chairs and on the tables, or in the bookcases.
"Not that it makes any permanent difference," said Mrs. Merryweather, plaintively. "They will put books on the chairs, Hildegarde. It is against the rules,—but it is their nature. I made a rhyme about it once:
"'The book is on the chair,
And the hat is on the stair,
And the boots are anywhere,
Children mine!'"
Hildegarde especially enjoyed helping to arrange the girls' room, tacking up the curtains, and putting fresh flowers (from the Roseholme greenhouse) in the vases. To-morrow she would see those dear girls, and then who so happy as she!
And to-morrow came, and with it Bell and Gertrude, escorted by their father. All the Merryweathers were now here, except Roger. The question was on Hildegarde's lips several times, "When will he come?" but somehow she waited a little each time, and the moment passed, till she heard Mr. Merryweather say: