Aghast at this suggestion, the children began to chant, hastily,—­

     “Rise, Sally, rise,
     Wipe your weeping eyes;
     Turn to the east,
     Turn to the west,
     Turn to the one that you love the best!”

Hildegarde sprang to her feet, whirled to the east, with her hands clasped in entreaty; turned to the west, holding out her arms with a gesture of intense longing; turned to the south,—­and saw a stranger standing and gazing at her with a look of intense amusement.

For once Hildegarde thought that her wits were gone; she stood still, her arms dropped to her side, and she returned the stranger’s gaze with a look of such simple, absolute dismay that he could hardly keep his countenance.  Hastily advancing, he lifted his hat.  “Miss Grahame,” he said, “I beg your pardon for breaking in in this way.  My sister—­I am Roger Merryweather, I ought to say first—­Bell wanted to know at what time she should come over, and as none of the boys were at hand, I ventured to come over with the message.”

His eyes,—­they were kind eyes, as Hildegarde noticed in her distress,—­his eyes seemed to say, “I wish you would not mind me in the least, my child!  Have I not sisters of my own, and don’t I know all about Sally Waters?” It almost seemed as if the words were spoken, and Hildegarde recovered her composure, and came forward, with a burning blush, it is true, but holding out her hand with her own sweet cordiality.

“I am very glad to see you, Mr. Merryweather.  You are very good not to laugh at poor Sally’s distresses.  Tell Bell that the children are all here, and the sooner she comes the better.  But—­ will you not come in, Mr. Merryweather?  My mother will be delighted to see you.  We have heard so much of you from all the children.”

Roger Merryweather excused himself on the ground of letters that must be written, but promised himself the pleasure of an early call; and so, with another kind, sensible look, and a smile and a friendly word to the children, he withdrew, and Hildegarde saw him leap lightly over the fence,—­a tall, well-knit figure, springy and light as Gerald’s own.

The girl drew a long breath of dismay, but it quavered, and finally ended in a hearty laugh.

“And how perfectly he behaved!” she said aloud.  “If one had to make a spectacle of one’s self,—­and apparently it is to be my fate through life,—­surely no one could choose a kinder looking spectator.”

Here she became aware of the children, standing at gaze, and evidently waiting for her next word.

“Why, what am I thinking about?” she cried, merrily.  “Do you think we have had enough of ‘Sally,’ children?  I—­I think perhaps I have.  And what shall we play next?  I fear it is too hot still for ‘I Spy;’ we must keep that till after tea.  What are you saying, Martha?  Speak out, dear, and don’t be afraid to say just what you would like best.  This is your own party, you see, and it is to be the kind of party you all think pleasantest.”