Laura Richards
Hildegarde's Home

CHAPTER XI
A CALL AND A CONSPIRACY

"And you really seriously intend passing the winter here?" asked Miss Leonie Loftus.

This young lady had come to make a parting call at Braeside. It was near the end of August, and three months of country life were all that she could possibly endure, and she was going with her mother to Long Branch, and thence to Saratoga.

"You really mean it?" she repeated, looking incredulous.

"Assuredly!" replied Hildegarde, smiling. "Winter and summer, and winter again, Miss Loftus. This is our home now, and we have become attached to it even in these few months."

"Oh, you look at it in a sentimental light," said Miss Loftus, with a disagreeable smile. "The domestic hearth, and that sort of thing. Rather old-fashioned, isn't it, Miss Grahame?"

"Possibly; I have never thought of it as a matter of fashion," was the quiet reply.

"And how do you expect to kill time in your wilderness?" was the next question.

"Kill him?" Hildegarde laughed. "We never can catch him, even for a moment, Miss Loftus. He flies faster at Braeside than even in New York. I sometimes think there are only two days in the week, Monday and Saturday."

"I hear you have a sewing-school in the village. I suppose that will take up some time."

"I hope so! The children seem interested, and it is a great pleasure to me. Then, too, I expect to join some of Miss Wayland's classes in the fall, and that will keep me busy, of course."

"Miss Wayland, over in Dorset? Why, it is three miles off."

"And even if so? I hear it is a delightful school, and Miss Wayland herself is very lovely. Do you know her?"

"No!" said Miss Loftus, who had been "dying" as she would have put it, to get into Miss Wayland's school three years before. "A country boarding-school isn't my idea of education."

"Oh!" said Hildegarde civilly. "But to go back for a moment, Miss Loftus. Your speaking of the children reminds me to ask you, is little Hugh going with you to Long Branch?"

Miss Loftus coloured. "Oh, dear, no!" she replied. "A child at such places, you know, is out of the question. He is to be sent to school. He is going next week."

"But – pardon me! are not all schools in vacation now?"

"I believe so! But these people – the Miss Hardhacks – are willing to take him now, and keep him."

"Poor little lad!" murmured Hildegarde, regardless of the fact that it was none of her business. "Will he not be very lonely?"

"Beggars must not be choosers, Miss Grahame!" was the reply, with another unamiable smile. Miss Loftus really would not have smiled at all, if she had known how she looked.

No sooner was the visitor gone, than Hildegarde flew up to her mother with the news. The Loftuses were going away; they were going to send Hugh to school. What was to be done? He could not go! He should not go.

She was greatly excited, but Mrs. Grahame's quiet voice and words restored her composure. "'Can't' and 'shan't' never won a battle!" said that lady. "We must think and plan."

Hildegarde had lately discovered, beyond peradventure, from some chance words let fall by little Hugh, that his mother had been the sister of Mr. Loftus; and she felt no doubt in her own mind that good Mrs. Beadle was aunt to both. The sister had been a school teacher, had married a man of some education, who died during the second year of their marriage, leaving her alone, in a Western town, with her little baby. She had struggled on, not wishing to be a burden either on her rich brother (who had not approved her marriage) or her aunt, who had nothing but her savings and her comfortable berth at Roseholme. At length, consumption laying its deadly hand on her, she sent for her brother, and begged him to take the boy to their good aunt, who, she knew, would care for him as her own. "But he didn't!" said Hugh. "He did not do that. He said he would make a man of me, but I don't believe he could make a very good one, do you, Beloved?"

Now the question was, how to bring about a meeting between the boy and his great-aunt, if great-aunt she were.

No child was allowed to enter the sacred precincts of Roseholme, for Colonel Ferrers regarded children, and especially boys, as the fountain-head of all mischief, flower-breaking, bird-nesting, turf-destroying. His own nephew had had to wait eighteen years for an invitation. How could it be possible to introduce little Hugh, a boy and a stranger, into the charmed garden?

If "Mammina" could only take him! No one could resist her mother, Hildegarde thought; certainly not Colonel Ferrers, who admired her so much. But this dear mother had sprained her ankle a week before, slipping on a mossy stone in the garden, and was only now beginning to get about, using a crutched stick.

Mrs. Grahame and Hildegarde put their heads together, and talked long and earnestly. Then they sent for Jack, and took counsel with him; and a plan was made for the first act of what Hildegarde called the Drama of the Conspirators.

A day or two after, when Mrs. Beadle drove to the town of Whitfield, some miles off, on her weekly marketing trip, it was Jack Ferrers, instead of Giuseppe, the faithful manservant, who held the reins and drove the yellow wagon with the stout brown cob. He wanted to buy some things, he said: a necktie, and some chocolate, and – oh, lots of things; and Mrs. Beadle was only too glad of his company. The good housekeeper was dressed, like Villikins' Dinah, in gorgeous array, her cashmere shawl being of the finest scarlet, her gown of a brilliant blue, while her bonnet nodded with blue and yellow cornflowers. Not a tradesman in Whitfield but came smiling to his door when he saw Mrs. Beadle's yellow cart; for she was a good customer, and wanted everything of the best for her Colonel. When they at last turned Chow-chow's head homeward, the wagon was nearly filled with brown-paper parcels, and Jack's pockets bulged out in all directions. As they drove along the pleasant road, fringed with oaks and beeches, Jack broke silence with, "Biddy, did you ever have any children?"

"Bless me, Master Jack, how you startled me!" cried Mrs. Beadle, who was deep in a problem of jelly and roly-poly pudding. "No, dear! no jelly – I should say, no chick nor child had I ever. I wasn't good enough, I suppose."

"Nonsense. Biddy!" said Jack. "But you must have had some relations; some – nieces or nephews, or something of that sort."

Mrs. Beadle sighed, and fell straightway into the trap.

"I had, dear! I had, indeed, once upon a time. But they're no good to me now, and never will be."

She sighed again.

"How no good to you?" queried this artful Jack.

"Oh, 'tis a long story, dear, and you wouldn't care for it at all. You would? Well! well! there's no harm that I know of in speaking of it. I've nothing to be ashamed of. I had a niece, Master Jack, and a dearer one never was, nor married to a finer young man. But they went out West, and he died, and left her with a baby. I wrote again and again, begging her to come home, but she was doing well, she said, and felt to stay, and had friends there, and all. Oh, dear! and last year – a year ago it is now, she died." Mrs. Beadle drew out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "She died, my dear; and – I didn't ought to speak of this, Master Jack, it do upset me so – I don't know where the child is to this day."

"Her child?" asked Jack, with a guilty consciousness of his ears being red.

"My own dear niece Martha's child!" repeated the good woman sorrowfully. "A boy it was, as should be seven years old by this time. I've wrote, and I've wrote, but no answer could I get. And whether he is dead, too, or whether his father's people have him, or what, is darkness to me."

"The brute!" exclaimed Jack Ferrers vehemently. "The cold-hearted, odious brute!"

"What is it, my dear?" cried Mrs. Beadle, drying her tears, and looking with alarm at the pony. "His tail over the reins, is it? Well, he will do that, but 'tis only play. He means no harm."

"Oh, I know!" cried Jack in confusion. "I didn't mean – that is – and is that all the relatives you have, Biddy?"

"Why, boys do love questions, don't they?" the good woman said. "I have a nephew living, Master Jack; and if you guessed from now till Sunday week, you never would guess his name."

"Solomon Grundy" rose to Jack's lips, he could not in the least tell why. He did his best to look unconscious, but it was perhaps fortunate that Mrs. Beadle was so absorbed in her own troubled thoughts that she did not look at him.

"Who is it?" he asked. "Do tell me. Biddy! Is it any one I ever heard of?"

"Hush, my dear! don't tell a soul that I mentioned it. I am not one to force myself on them as has got up in the world, and think honest service a disgrace. It's Ephraim Loftus!"

"Not Mr. Loftus at the Poplars?"

"Mr. Loftus at the Poplars! The very same. My own sister's son, and little credit he is to either of us. Don't ask me how he made his money, for I don't know, and don't want to know. When he was a little boy, his pockets were always full of pennies that he got from the other boys, trading and the like, and nobody had a kindness for him, though they loved Martha. Not a soul in the village but loved Martha, and would do anything for her. So when Ephraim was fourteen or so, he went away to New York, and we never heard anything more till he came back three or four years ago, a rich man, and built that great house, and lived there summers. I've never seen him but once; I don't go out, only just in the back garden, except when I drive to town. And that once he looked me all over, as if I was a waxwork in a glass case, and never stopped nor spoke a word. That's Ephraim Loftus! He needn't have been afraid of my troubling him or his, I can tell him. I wouldn't demean myself." Mrs. Beadle's face was red, and her voice trembled with angry pride.

"And – " Jack wished Hildegarde were speaking instead of himself; she would know what to say, and he felt entirely at a loss. "Do you – do you suppose he knows anything about – about his sister's little boy?"

Mrs. Beadle looked as if some one had struck her a blow. "Ephraim Loftus!" she cried. "If I thought that, Master Jack, I'd – I'd – why, what's the matter, sir?" For Jack had risen in his seat, and was waving the whip wildly round his head.

"It's my cousin," he said. "Don't you see her coming?"

"Oh, the dear young lady! yes, to be sure. Walking this way, isn't she? Never mind me. Master Jack!" said the good woman, striving for composure. "I was upset by what you said, that's all. It gave me a thought – who is the little boy with Miss Grahame, dear?"

"He? oh – he's a boy," said Jack, rather incoherently. "His name is Hugh. Good-morning, Hildegarde! Hallo, Hugh! how are you?"

"Good-morning!" cried Hildegarde, as the wagon drew up beside her. "Good-morning, Mrs. Beadle. Isn't it a lovely day? Will the pony stand, Jack?"

"Like a rock!" and Jack, obeying the hint, leaped to the ground.

Mrs. Beadle had turned very pale. She was gazing fixedly at Hugh, who returned the look with wide blue eyes, shining with some strong emotion.

"Dear Mrs. Beadle," said Hildegarde gently, taking the housekeeper's hand in hers as she leant against the wagon, "this is a very dear little friend of mine, whom I want you to know. His name is Hugh; Hugh Allen; and he is staying with his uncle, Mr. Loftus."

"I knew it!" cried Mrs. Beadle, clapping her hands together. "I knew it! And I am going to faint!"

"No, don't do that!" said Hugh, climbing up into the seat beside her. "Don't do that. You must be calm, for you are my great-aunt, and I am your little nephew. How do you do? I am very glad to see you."

"You are sure he will stand?" whispered Hildegarde.

"Look at him! he is asleep already."

"Then come along!" and the two conspirators vanished among the trees.

They pushed on a little way through the tangle of undergrowth, and paused, breathless and radiant, under a great beech-tree.

"Jack," said Hildegarde, "you are a dear! How did you manage it?"

"I didn't manage it at all. I am a stupid ninny. Why, I've thrown her into a fit. Do you think it's safe to leave her alone?"

"Nonsense! a joy fit does not hurt, when a person is well and strong. Oh! isn't it delightful! and you have enjoyed it, too, Jack, haven't you? I am sure you have. And – why, you have a new hat! and your necktie is straight. You look really very nice, mon cousin!"

"Mille remerciments, ma cousine!" replied Jack, with a low bow, which, Hildegarde noticed, was not nearly so like the shutting-up of a jackknife as it would have been a few weeks ago. "Am I really improving? You have no idea what I go through with, looking in the glass. It is a humiliating practice. Have some chocolates?" He pulled out a box, and they crunched in silent contentment.

"Now I think we may go back," said Hildegarde, after her third bonbon. "But I must tell you first what Hugh said. I told him the whole story as we walked along; first as if it were about some one else, you know, and then when he had taken it all in, I told him that he himself was the little boy. He was silent at first, reflecting, as he always does. Then he said: 'I am like an enchanted prince, I think. Generally it is fair ones with golden locks that take them out of prison, but at my age a great-aunt is better. Don't you think so, Beloved?' and I did think so."

"But it was a fair one with golden locks who planned it all!" Jack said, with a shy look at his cousin's fair hair.

"Jack, you are learning to pay compliments!" cried Hildegarde, clapping her hands. "I believe you will go to Harvard after all, and be a classical scholar."

"I would never pay another," said Jack seriously, "if I thought it would have that effect."

When they returned to the wagon, they found Mrs. Beadle still wiping away joyful tears, while Hugh was apparently making plans for the future. His voice rang out loud and clear. "And we will dwell in a corner of the house-top, and have a dinner of herbs!" said the child. "They may have all the stalled oxes themselves, mayn't they, great-aunt? And you will clothe us in scarlet and fine wool, won't you, great-aunt?"

"Bless your dear heart!" cried Mrs. Beadle. "Is it red flannel you mean? Don't tell me those heathen haven't put you into flannels!" And she wept again.

CHAPTER XII
THE SECOND ACT

Colonel Ferrers was taking his afternoon stroll in the garden. Dinner was over; for at Roseholme, as at Braeside, country hours were kept, with early dinner, and seven o'clock tea, the pleasantest of all meals.

With a fragrant Manilla cigar between his lips, and his good stick in his hand, the Colonel paced up and down the well-kept gravel paths, at peace with all mankind. The garden was all ablaze with geranium and verbena, heliotrope and larkspur. The pansies spread a gold and purple mantle in their own corner, while poppies were scattered all about in well-planned confusion. All this was Giuseppe's work, – good, faithful Giuseppe, who never rested, and never spoke, save to say "Subito, Signor!" when his master called him. He was at work now in a corner of the garden, setting out chrysanthemums; but no one would have known it, so noiseless were his motions, so silent his coming and going.

The Colonel, though pleasantly conscious of the lovely pomp spread out for his delight, was thinking of other things than flowers. He was thinking how his nephew Jack had improved in the last two months. Positively, thought the Colonel, the boy was developing, was coming out of the animal kingdom, and becoming quite human. Partly due to the Indian clubs, no doubt, and to his, the Colonel's, wholesome discipline and instructions; but largely, sir, largely to feminine influence. Daily intercourse with women like Mrs. Grahame and her daughter would civilise a gorilla, let alone a well-intentioned giraffe who played the fiddle. He puffed meditatively at his cigar, and dwelt on a pleasant picture that his mind called up: Hildegarde as he had seen her yesterday, sitting with a dozen little girls about her, and telling them stories while they sewed, under her careful supervision, at patchwork and dolls' clothes. How sweet she looked! how bright her face was, as she told the merry tale of the "Midsummer Night's Dream." "Harry Monmouth, sir! she was telling 'em Shakespeare! And they were drinking it in as if it had been Mother Goose." The Colonel paused, and sighed heavily. "If Hester had lived," he said, "if my little Hester had lived – " and then he drew a long whiff of the fragrant Manilla, and walked on.

As he turned the corner by the great canna plant, he came suddenly upon Mrs. Beadle, who was apparently waiting to speak to him. The good housekeeper was in her state dress of black silk, with embroidered apron and lace mitts, and a truly wonderful cap; and Colonel Ferrers, if he had been observant of details, might have known that this portended something of a serious nature. Being such as he was, he merely raised his hat with his grave courtesy, and said: "Good-afternoon, Mrs. Beadle. Is it about the yellow pickles? The same quantity as usual, ma'am, or perhaps a few more jars, as I wish to send some to Mrs. Grahame at Braeside."

Mrs. Beadle shivered a little. She had made the yellow pickles at Roseholme for five and twenty years; and now, – "No, sir," she said faintly. "It is not the pickles." She plucked at the fringe of her shawl, and Colonel Ferrers waited, though with a kindling eye. Women were admirable, but some of their ways were hard to bear.

Finally Mrs. Beadle made a desperate effort, and said, "Do you think, sir, that you could find some one to take my place?"

Colonel Ferrers fixed a look of keen inquiry on her, and instantly felt her pulse. "Rapid!" he said, "and fluttering; Elizabeth Beadle, are you losing your mind?"

"I have found my little boy, sir," cried Mrs. Beadle, bursting into tears. "My dear niece Martha's own child, Colonel Ferrers. He is in the hands of heathen reprobates, if I do say it, and it is my duty to make a home for him. I never thought to leave Roseholme while work I could, but you see how it is, sir."

"I – see how it is?" cried the Colonel, with a sudden explosion. Then controlling himself by a great effort, he said with forced calmness, "I will walk over to the end of the garden, Elizabeth Beadle, and when I return I shall expect a sensible and coherent – do you understand? —coherent account of this folderol. See how it is, indeed!"

The Colonel strode off, muttering to himself, and poor Mrs. Beadle wiped her eyes, and smoothed down her apron with trembling hands, and made up her mind that she would not cry, if she should die for it.

When the grim-frowning Colonel returned, she told her story with tolerable plainness, and concluded by begging that her kind friend and master would not be angry, but would allow her to retire to a cottage, where she could "see to" her niece's child, and bring him up in a Christian way.

"Pooh! pooh! my good Beadle!" cried the Colonel. "Stuff and nonsense, my good soul! I am delighted that you have found the child; delighted, I assure you. We will get him away from those people, never fear for that! and we will send him to school. A good school, ma'am, is the place for the boy. None of your Hardhacks, but a school where he will be happy and well-treated. In vacation time – hum! ha! – you might take a little trip with him now and then, perhaps. But as to disturbing your position here – Pooh! pooh! stuff and nonsense! Don't let me hear of it again!"

Mrs. Beadle trembled, but remained firm. "No school, sir!" she said. "What the child needs is a home, Colonel Ferrers; and there's nobody but me to make one for him. No, sir! never, if I gave my life to it, could I thank you as should be for your kindness since first I set foot in this dear house, as no other place will ever be home to me! but go I must, Colonel, and the sooner the better."

Then the Colonel exploded. His face became purple; his eyes flashed fire, and, leaning upon his stick, he poured out volley upon volley of reproach, exhortation, argument. Higher and higher rose his voice, till the very leaves quivered upon the trees; till the object of his wrath shook like an aspen, and even Giuseppe, in the north corner of the garden, quailed, and murmured "Santa Maria!" over his chrysanthemums.

How much more frightened, since theirs was the blame of all the mischief, were two guilty creatures who at this moment crouched, concealed behind a great laurel-bush, listening with all their ears!

Jack and Hildegarde exchanged terrified glances. They had known that the Colonel would be angry, but they had no idea of anything like this. He was in a white heat of rage, and was hurling polysyllabic wrath at the devoted woman before him, who stood speechless but unshaken, meekly receiving the torrent of invective.

Suddenly, there was a movement among the bushes; and the next moment a small form emerged from the shade, and stood in front of the furious old gentleman. "Is your name Saul?" asked Hugh quietly.

The two conspirators had forgotten the child. They had brought him with them, with some faint idea of letting the Colonel see him as if by accident, hoping that his quaint grace might make a favourable impression; but in the stress of the occasion they had wholly forgotten his presence, and now – now matters were taken out of their hands. Hildegarde clutched her parasol tight; Jack clasped his violin, and both listened and looked with all their souls.

"Is your name Saul?" repeated the boy, as the Colonel, astonishment choking for an instant the torrent of his rage, paused speechless. "Because if it is, the evil spirit from God is upon you, and you should have some one play with his hand."

"What – what is this?" gasped the Colonel. "Who are you, boy?"

"I am my great-aunt's little nephew," said Hugh. "But no matter for me. You must sit down when the evil spirit is upon you. You might hurt some one. Why do you look so at me, great-aunt? Why don't you help Mr. Saul?"

"Come away, Hughie, love!" cried Mrs. Beadle, in an agony of terror. "Come, dear, and don't ever speak to the Colonel so again. He's only a babe, sir, as doesn't know what he is saying."

"Go away yourself!" roared the Colonel, recovering the power of speech. "Depart, do you hear? Remove yourself from my presence, or – " he moved forward. Mrs. Beadle turned and fled. "Now," he said, turning to the child, "what do you mean, child, by what you said just now? I – I will sit down."

He sank heavily on a garden seat and motioned the child before him. "What do you mean, about Saul – eh?"

"But you know," said Hugh, opening wide eyes of wonder, – "are you so old that you forget? – how the evil spirit from God came upon King Saul, and they sent for David, and he played with his hand till the evil spirit went away. Now you remember?" He nodded confidently, and sat down beside the Colonel, who, though still heaving and panting from his recent outburst, made no motion to repel him. "I said Mr. Saul," Hugh continued, "because you are not a king, you see, and I suppose just 'Saul' would not be polite when a person is as old as you are. And what do you think?" he cried joyously, as a sudden thought struck him. "The ostrich gentleman plays most beautifully with his hand. His name isn't David, but that doesn't matter. I am going to find him."

"Play, Jack," whispered Hildegarde. "Play, quick! Something old and simple. Play 'Annie Laurie.'"

Obeying the girl's fleeting look, Jack laid fiddle to bow, and the old love tune rose from behind the laurel-bush and floated over the garden, so sweet, so sweet, the very air seemed to thrill with tenderness and gentle melody.

Colonel Ferrers sank back on the seat. "Hester's song," he murmured. "Hester's song. Is it Hester, or an angel?"

The notes rose, swelled into the pathetic refrain, —

 
"And for bonny Annie Laurie,
I'd lay me down and die."
 

Then they sank away, and left the silence still throbbing, as the hearts of the listeners throbbed.

"I thought it was an angel," cried Hugh, "when I first heard him, Mr. Saul. But it isn't. It is the ostrich gentleman, and he has to play up in the attic generally, because his uncle is a poor person who doesn't know how to like music. I am so sorry for his uncle, aren't you?"

"Yes," said Colonel Ferrers gruffly. "Yes, I am. Very sorry."

A pause followed. Then Hugh asked cautiously: "How do you feel now, Mr. Saul? Do you feel as if the evil spirit were going away?"

"I've got him," said the Colonel, in whose eyes the fire of anger was giving place to something suspiciously like a twinkle. "I've got him – bottled up. Now, youngster, who told you all that?"

"All what?" asked Hugh, whose thoughts were beginning to wander as he gazed around the garden. "About the poor person who doesn't know how to – "

"No, no," said the Colonel hastily, "not that. About Saul and David, and all that. Who put you up to it? Hey?"

His keen eyes gazed intently into the clear blue ones of the child. Hugh stared at him a moment, then answered gently, with a note of indulgence, as if he were speaking to a much younger child: "It is in the Bible. It is a pity that you do not know it. But perhaps there are no pictures in your Bible. There was a big one where I lived, all full of pictures, so I learned to read that way. And I always liked the Saul pictures," he added, his eyes kindling, "because David was beautiful, you know, and of a ruddy countenance; and King Saul was all hunched up against the tent-post, with his eyes glaring just as yours were when you roared, only he was uglier. You are not at all ugly now, but then you looked as if you were going to burst. If a person should burst – "

Colonel Ferrers rose, and paced up and down the path, going a few steps each way, and glancing frequently at the boy from under his bushy eyebrows. Hugh fell into a short reverie, and woke to say cheerfully: —

"This place fills me with heavenly joys. Does it fill you?"

"Humph!" growled the Colonel. "If you lived here, you would break all the flowers off, I suppose, and pull 'em to pieces to see how they grow; eh?"

Hugh contemplated him dreamily. "Is that what you did when you were a little boy?" he answered. "I love flowers. I don't like to pick them, for it takes their life. I don't care how they grow, as long as they do grow."

"And you would take all the birds' eggs," continued the Colonel, "and throw stones at the birds, and trample the flower-beds, and bring mud into the house, and tie fire-crackers to the cat's tail, and upset the ink. I know you!"

Hugh rose with dignity, and fixed his eyes on the Colonel with grave disapproval. "You do not know me!" he said. "And – and if that is the kind of boy you were, it is no wonder that the evil spirit comes upon you. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you did burst some day. Good-by, Mr. Saul! I am going away now."

"Hold on!" cried the Colonel peremptorily. "I beg your pardon! Do you hear? Shake hands!"

Hugh beamed forgiveness, and extended a small brown paw, which was shaken with right good will.

"That's right!" said Colonel Ferrers, with gruff heartiness. "Now go into the house and find your great-aunt, and tell her to give you some jam. Do you like jam?" The boy nodded with all the rapture of seven years. "Give you some jam, and a picture-book, and make up a bed in the little red room. Can you remember all that?"

"Yes, Mr. Saul!" cried Hugh, dancing about a little. "Nice Mr. Saul! Shall I bring you some jam? What kind of jam shall I say?"

"What kind do you like best?"

"Damson."

"Damson it is! Off with you now!"

When the boy was gone, the Colonel walked up and down for a few moments, frowning heavily, his hands holding his stick behind him. Then he said quietly, "Jack!"

Jack came forward and stood before him, looking half-proud, half-sheepish, with his fiddle under his arm.

The Colonel contemplated him for a moment in silence. Then, "Why in the name of all that is cacophonous, didn't you play me a tune at first, instead of an infernal German exercise? Hey?"

Jack blushed and stammered. He had played for his uncle once only, a fugue by Hummel, of which his mind had happened to be full; he felt that it had not been a judicious choice.

"Can you play 'The Harp of Tara'?" demanded the Colonel; and Jack played, with exquisite feeling, the lovely old tune, the Colonel listening with bent head, and marking the time with his stick. "Harry Monmouth!" he said, when it was over. "Because a man doesn't like to attend the violent ward of a cats' lunatic asylum, it doesn't follow that he doesn't care for music. Music, sir, is melody, that's what it is!"

Jack shuddered slightly, and did silent homage to the shade of Wagner, but knew enough to keep silence.

"And – and where did you pick up this child?" his uncle continued. "I take it back about his having been put up to what he did. He is true blue, that child; I shouldn't wonder if you were, too, in milksop fashion. Hey?"

"Skim-milk is blue, you know, uncle," said Jack, smiling. "But I didn't discover Hugh. Isn't he a wonderful child, sir? Hildegarde discovered him, of course. I believe Hildegarde does everything, except what her mother does. Come here, Hildegarde! Come and tell Uncle Tom about your finding Hugh."

But Hildegarde was gone.