"It is quite evident that I am not a dipplo-mat," said Margaret, with a laugh that ended in a sigh. "I wish Uncle John would come home!"
CHAPTER XIV.
BLACK SPIRITS AND WHITE.
The evening fell close and hot. Gerald Merryweather, taking his way to Fernley House, noticed the great white thunder-heads peering above the eastern horizon. "There'll be trouble by and by," he said.
"I wonder, oh, I wonder,
If they're afraid of thunder.
"Ever lapsing into immortal verse, my son. You are the Lost Pleiad of Literature, that's what you are; and a mighty neat phrase that is. Oh, my Philly, why aren't you here, to take notice of my coruscations? Full many a squib is born to blaze unseen, and waste its fizzing—Hello, you, sir! Stop a minute, will you?"
A small boy was scudding along the path before him. He turned his head, but on seeing Gerald he only doubled his rate of speed. Merton was a good runner for his size, but it was ill trying to race the Gambolling Greyhound, as Gerald had been called at school. Two or three quick steps, two or three long, lopping bounds, and Master Merton was caught, clutched by the collar, and held aloft, wriggling and protesting.
"You let me go!" whined Merton. "Oh, please Mr. Merryweather, don't stop me now. It's very important, indeed, it is."