“Are these really for me some day? Did grandpère say it should be so?” and Annette listened while her mother told her of her grandfather’s injunction, and how old Marie had hidden them in Annette’s own clothes and saved them from the highwaymen.
The time passed quickly before the little guests began to arrive, for it was to be an afternoon party, and some were brought by boat on the Bayou, while others rode on pillions behind black Philippe or Jean, as the case might be, sitting very still so that the best frocks would not be rumpled.
Many games they played in the long, cool galleries, or on the grass before the house. Ball was one of them, and when they were tired of this they played at hide-and-seek, finding many good and secret nooks among the trees and wax-myrtle shrubs, which were so bushy and so green.
“What shall we play next?” asked Annette, anxious that her guests should have a good time, and some one suggested “Hugh, Sweet Hugh,” that game of many verses which has been played by high and low through so many centuries and in all countries.
The children made a pretty sight as, circling in a ring, they sang merrily,—
“Come up, sweet Hugh, come up, dear Hugh,
Come up and get the ball.”
“I will not come, I may not come,
Without my bonny boys all.”
Even after the tragic death of Sweet Hugh their voices rang out clearly till the last verse,—