Margaret led the way to the verandah, and the stranger finally deposited his burden on the steps. Looking down at himself, he seemed for the first time aware of his singular appearance, for he blushed, and, lifting his cap, was turning away with a muttered apology, in which the word "clothes" was the only word Margaret could hear.
"Oh!" she cried, "you are not going yet! I—I have not thanked you! You have saved the child's life, I know you have. I—I have seen something of that bog," she shuddered. "Mr. Montfort will want to see you, and thank you himself. Do at least tell me your name, so that we may know who it is that has done us this great service."
But here the young man caught sight of his face, reflected in a window-pane, and lost the last vestige of self-possession. "If—if you'll excuse me," he cried, "I think I'll go before Mr. Montfort comes. The costume of a Mohawk on the war-path—effective, but unusual; a—call to-morrow if I may, to see if the little chap is all right. Mr. Montfort kindly asked me—good day!"
"But you haven't told her your name!" Basil shouted after him.
"Oh! Of course!—a—Merryweather! Gerald Merryweather."
CHAPTER X.
"I MUST HELP MYSELF."
"Dear Margaret: