But at this moment Toots appeared,—­a girl of fifteen, tall, shy and blushing, and was introduced as “my daughter Gertrude.”  She confessed, on interrogation, that she had dropped Sibbes’s “Soul’s Conflict” out of the window, and was on her way to pick it up.

“Why didn’t you drop it down the well?” asked her sister.  “It is so dry, I am sure a wetting would do it good!”

“Sit down, my dear!” said Mrs. Merryweather, comfortably.  “One of the boys is sure to be about, and will bring in the book.  Sibbes is a little dry, Bell, but very sound writing, much sounder than a good deal of the controversial writing of—­bless me! what’s that?”

Something resembling a human wheel had revolved swiftly past the window, emitting unearthly cries.

Hildegarde blushed and hesitated.  “I—­I think it was your brother Obadiah,” she said to Bell.

The latter stared, open-eyed.  “My brother Obadiah?” she repeated.  “How did you know—­I beg your pardon! but why do you say Obadiah?”

Hildegarde glanced at her mother, who was laughing openly.  “You will have to make full confession, Hilda,” she said.  “I do not think Mrs. Merryweather will be very severe with you.”

“It is a dreadful thing to confess,” said Hildegarde, laughing and blushing.  “I—­to tell the truth, I happened to be walking in our garden, on the other side of the tall hedge, just when you drove up, the other day; and—­there is a most convenient little peep-hole, and I wanted to see our new neighbours, and—­and—­I peeped!  Are you much shocked, Mrs. Merryweather?  I heard several names,—­ Bell, and Toots, and—­I—­I heard the handsome red-haired boy called Obadiah.”

The Merryweathers laughed merrily, and Mrs. Merryweather was about to speak, when a voice was heard in the hall, chanting in a singular, nasal key,—­

    “Dropsy dropped a book,
     And she’s going to be shook! 
     Dropsy dropped a volume,
     Which makes her very solume!”

The door was pushed open, and the handsome red-haired boy entered, walking on his hands, holding aloft between his feet the missing “Soul’s Conflict.”

“My son Gerald,” said Mrs. Merryweather, with a wicked smile.  “Gerald, my love, Mrs. and Miss Grahame.”

If Hildegarde was crimson (and she undoubtedly was), Gerald Merryweather was brilliant scarlet when he rose to his feet and saluted the strangers; but he was also atwinkle with laughter, the whole lithe, graceful body of him seeming to radiate fun.  One glance at Bell, another at Hildegarde, and the whole party broke into peal on peal of merriment.

“How do you do?” said Scarlet to Crimson, holding out a strong brown hand, and gripping hers cordially.  “Awfully glad!  Please excuse me, Mrs. Grahame, for coming in like that.  I thought there was no one here but the mother, and she is as used to one end of me as the other.”

“So you are Gerald, and not Obadiah.” said Mrs. Grahame.  “I congratulate you on the prettier name.”