"One; Willy. That is, he's not so very little now, but he's a good bit younger than Phil and I; Phil is my twin. Willy—oh, I suppose he must be fourteen, or somewhere about there, to a field or two."
"Basil is twelve," said Margaret, thoughtfully. "And does he—or did he, two years ago,—I suppose a boy develops very quickly,—did he want to be climbing and jumping and running all the time?"
"Let me see!" said Gerald, gravely. "Why—yes, I should say so, Miss Montfort. Of course he stops now and then to eat; and then there's the time that he's asleep, you know; you have to take out that. But otherwise,—yes, I should say you had described Willy's existence pretty well."
"And climbing on roofs?" Margaret went on. "And tumbling into bogs, and turning somersaults? What can be the pleasure of turning oneself wrong side up and getting the blood into one's head?"
Margaret stopped suddenly, and the colour rushed into her face; no need of somersaults in her case. For had not this young man been turning somersaults the first time she saw him? And turning them in the same senseless way, just for the joy of it, apparently? She glanced at him, and he was blushing too; but he met her look of distress with one so comic in its quizzical appeal, that she laughed in spite of herself.
"I love to turn somersaults!" he murmured. "'Twas the charm of my chirping childhood; it is now the solace of my age. Don't be severe, Miss Montfort. I turn them now, sometimes; I will not deceive you."
"Oh! oh, yes, I know!" said Margaret, timidly, but still laughing in spite of herself. "I—I saw you the other day, Mr. Merryweather. I thought—you seemed to be enjoying yourself very much."
"No! Did you, though?" cried Gerald. "I say! Where was it? I never meant to do it when people were round. I'm awfully sorry."
"Oh, no!" said Margaret, confused. "Why shouldn't you? It—it was by the edge of the bog. I had come round that way, and you were leaping with a pole about the bog, and I—stayed to watch you. I hope you don't mind;" this foolish girl was blushing again furiously, which was most unnecessary; "and—I thought you must be a foreigner; I don't know why. And—and then you came out, and turned a somersault, and—I wondered why, that was all. You see, I never had a brother, and I have never known any boys in all my life till now. I don't mean that you are a boy, of course!"
"Oh, but I am!" cried Gerald. "What else am I but a boy? I wish they could hear you at home. Why, I'm just Jerry, you know, and—and I've always been that kind of boy, I'm afraid; just like Willy, only a good deal worse. And now—well, I've been through college, and now I'm in the School of Mines, and I'm twenty-one, and all that, but I can't seem to make myself feel any older, don't you know. I don't know what's going to become of me. Hilda says I won't grow up till I fall—oh! you don't know Hilda, do you, Miss Montfort?"