“And who is Roger?” he asked, then.  “Have you yet more treasures, Mrs. Merryweather?  Surely none old enough, to go moose-hunting?”

“Roger is not my own child, Colonel Ferrers,” said Mrs. Merryweather, smiling.  “I always have to remind myself of the fact, for he seems like my own.  He is my husband’s half-brother, many years younger than he,—­the dearest fellow in the world, and really a delightful combination of son and brother.  I hope he will be here before long.  And that reminds me,—­have I made my husband’s apologies?  I am so sorry he could not come!”

“I regret it heartily, my dear madam,” said the Colonel, with a courtly bow; and he recalled how Mr. Merryweather had confided to him the other day that he drew the line at going out in the evening, and would not exchange his own fireside for the King of Dahomey’s.  He thought it probable that the excellent Miles was at this moment sitting with pipe and newspaper on the back veranda of his house; and if it had not been Hildegarde’s birthday, the Colonel might have wished himself beside him.  As it was, however, he devoted himself to his guests with such hearty good-will that the tea-table soon rang with merry talk and laughter.

The high-tea itself was beyond praise; Mrs. Beadle had seen to that.  Mrs. Grahame’s Auntie herself might have been jealous of the jellied chicken; and salad was green and gold, and rolls were snowy white, and strawberries glowed like sunset; and over all were roses, roses, making the whole table a floral offering, as Gerald said.  Then, just before everybody had reached the “no more” point, the good Guiseppe, who had been standing, stately, behind his master’s chair, darted out, and in a moment returned, bearing on a huge silver salver,—­what was it?  Behind Guiseppe was seen the portly form of good Mrs. Beadle, beaming under her best cap; Guiseppe’s own face was one broad, dark smile.  A general chorus broke from all save the host and Mrs. Grahame; Hugh gave a squeak of joy in which was no surprise.

“I knew they would like it!” he cried, clapping his hands.  “I knew they would be surprised, and that the hair of their scalps would be uplifted.  It is yours, Beloved; it is for you!”

A cake!  Who had ever seen such a cake?  It must have been baked in the biggest cheese-frame that the dairy could supply; or the rim of a cart-wheel might have been used to frame its monstrous circle.  Certainly, as Guiseppe set it down before Hildegarde, it seemed to cover the whole width of the great table.  On its top the frosting was piled high, in fantastic shapes.  There seemed to be little hills and valleys; and from among these peeped—­and did they only seem to move?—­a number of tiny figures in green and gold.  One sat astride of a snowy pinnacle, another lay stretched at full length in a hollow, his pretty face only peering out; some were chasing each other among the elfin hills, others were standing at ease, their hands on their hearts, their forms bent gracefully as if in salutation.  In the middle rose a white throne, and on this sat the prettiest fairy of all, with a crown on her head and a wand in her hand; she was dressed in white and gold, and round her danced a circle of elves; and every elf held a tiny blazing candle.