She stopped suddenly, feeling that there was a little sob somewhere about her, and that she would die rather than let it get into her voice. The old gentleman took off his hat.
"My dear young lady," he said, "the apologies are all on my side. Accept ten thousand of them, I beg of you! I am delighted to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Grahame's daughter, under—a—any circumstances." (Here he evidently suppressed a chuckle, and Hildegarde knew it, and hated him.) "Permit me to introduce myself,—Colonel Ferrers.
"I have been annoyed lately," he added kindly, "by thieving boys, and, being near-sighted, did not distinguish between a persecutor and a protector of my birds." He bowed again. "And now I will continue my walk, merely remarking that I beg you to consider yourself entirely free of my grounds, in any and every part. I shall do myself the honour of calling on your mother very shortly. Good-morning, my dear Miss Grahame!" and, with another bow, Colonel Ferrers replaced his felt wide-awake, and strode off across the meadow, flourishing his stick, and indulging in the chuckle which he had so long suppressed.
"Harry Monmouth!" he said to himself, as he switched the daisy-heads off. "So we have a fair tomboy for a neighbour. Well, it may be a good thing for Jack. I must take him over and introduce him."
Now Hildegarde was not in the least a tomboy, as we know; and the intuitive knowledge that the old gentleman would think her one made her very angry indeed. She waited till he was out of sight, and then slid down the tree, without a second glance at the kingbird's nest, the innocent cause of all the trouble. She had meant to take one egg, to add to her collection; but she would not touch one now, if there were a thousand of them. She ran down the long sunny slope of the meadow, her cheeks glowing, her heart still beating angrily. She was going straight home, to tell her mother all about it, and how horrid Colonel Ferrers had been, and how she should never come downstairs when he came to the house—never! "under any circumstances!" How dared he make fun of her? She sat down on the stone wall to rest, and thought how her mother would hear the tale with sympathetic indignation. But somehow—how was it?—when she conjured up her mother's face, there was a twinkle in her eye. Mamma had such a fatal way of seeing the funny side of things. Suppose she should only laugh at this dreadful adventure! Perhaps—perhaps it was funny, from Colonel Ferrers's point of view.
In short, by the time she reached home, Hildegarde had cooled off a good deal, and it was a modified version of the tragedy that Mrs. Grahame heard. She found this quite funny enough, however, and Hildegarde was almost, but not quite, ready to laugh with her.
That evening, mother and daughter were sitting on the broad verandah as usual, playing Encyclopædics. This was a game of Mrs. Grahame's own invention, and a favourite resource with her and Hildegarde in darkling hours like this. Perhaps some of my readers may like to know how the game is played, and, as the Dodo says of the Caucus Race, "the best way to explain it is to play it."
They began with the letter "A," and had already been playing some time, turn and turn about.
"Aphrodite, goddess of Love and Beauty."
"Ahasuerus, king of Persia, B.C. something or other, afflicted with sleeplessness."