“Indeed I do,” said Hildegarde, heartily.  “I have often looked longingly at that nice smooth lawn, and I hoped you were going to lay it out for a court.”

“Phil,” said Gertrude aside to her brother, who was still blushing and uncomfortable, “you needn’t mind a bit.  Jerry came in walking on his hands, right into the room, before he saw them at all; and they are so nice, they didn’t care; they liked it.”

“Did they?” said Phil, also in a whisper.  “Well, that’s some comfort; but I’ll punch his head for him, all the same.”

And Gerald cried aloud,—­

“Away, away to the mountain’s brow, For Ferguson glares like an angry cow.  He’ll punch my head, and kill me dead, Before I have time to say ‘Bow-wow.’”

And the five young people went off laughing to the tennis-court.

CHAPTER IV.

Hester’s playroom.

“‘Thar!’ said the Deacon.  ‘Naow she’ll dew!’”

Hildegarde spoke in a tone of satisfaction, as she looked about her room.  She had been setting it to rights,—­not that it was ever “to wrongs” for any length of time,—­for Bell and Gertrude Merryweather were coming to spend the morning with her, and she wanted her own special sanctum to look its best.  She was very fond of this large, bare, airy chamber, with its polished floor, its white wainscoting, and its quaint blue-dragon paper.  She had made it into a picture gallery, and just now it was a flower-show, too; for every available vase and bowl was filled with flowers from wood and garden.  On the round table stood a huge Indian jar of pale green porcelain, filled with nodding purple iris; the green glass bowls held double buttercups and hobble-bush sprays, while two portraits, those of Dundee and William the Silent, were wreathed in long garlands of white hawthorn.  The effect was charming, and Hildegarde might well look satisfied.  But Bell Merryweather, when she came into the room, thought that its owner was the most beautiful part of it.  Hildegarde was used to herself, as she would have said frankly; she knew she was pretty, and it was pleasant to be pretty, and there was an end of it.  But to Bell, in whose family either brown locks or red were the rule, this white and gold maiden, with her cool, fresh tints of pearl and rose, was something wonderful.  Hildegarde’s dress this morning was certainly nothing astonishing, simply a white cambric powdered with buttercups; but its perfect freshness, its trim simplicity, made it so absolutely the fit and proper thing, that Bell’s honest heart did homage to the lovely vision; there was something almost like reverence in her eyes as she returned Hildegarde’s cordial greeting.  As for the young Gertrude, all the world was fairyland to her, and Hildegarde was the queen, opening the door of a new province.  The most important thing in life was not to fall or drop anything on this first visit to the strange and wonderful old house, as all the Merryweathers persisted in calling Braeside.  Gertrude was always falling and dropping things.  At home nobody expected anything else; but here it was different, and the poor child was conscious of every finger and toe as she stepped along gingerly.  Gerald’s parting words were still ringing in her ears: