Martha murmured inaudibly several times, but spurred by digs in the ribs with several pairs of sharp elbows, finally spoke aloud with a sudden yelp.  “Oh, please!—­Susan Aurora Bulger, I’ll go right and tell your mother this minute!—­please, ’The Highland Gates to Die.’”

“What?” asked Hildegarde, in amazement.  “Say it again, Martha, please.  The Highland—­what?”

“Gates to Die!” said Martha Skeat, and all the children took up the chorus. “‘The Highland Gates to Die,’ please, Teacher!”

Hildegarde repeated the words to herself, but no light came.  “I don’t understand,” she said.  “You will have to show me how to play, for I never heard of the game.  Highland Gates—­well, I shall learn it quickly, I hope.  Euleta, will you take the lead?”

Euleta, a sheep-faced child, with six whitey-brown pigtails, motioned to the others, who at once joined hands in a circle.  Then she began to pace slowly round the circle, and all the children broke out into a wild chant: 

    “Go round and round the level,
     Go round and round the level,
     Go round and round the level,
     The Highland Gates to die.”

Now the arms were lifted, and the leader wove her mystic paces in and out among the children, while the words changed.

    “Go in and out the window,
     Go in and out the window,
     Go in and out the window,
     The Highland Gates to die.”

Euleta took Vesta Philbrook by the hand, led her into the circle, and knelt solemnly before her; and the others sang, wildly,—­

    “Kneel down and face your lover,
     Kneel down and face your lover,
     Kneel down and face your lover,
     The Highland Gates to die.”

“What are, you playing?” cried Bell Merryweather, who had come in quietly, and was watching the proceedings in amazement.

“Don’t ask me!” Hildegarde replied, “watch and listen, and learn if you can.  Oh, this is tragedy, indeed!” For Euleta had thrown herself backward, not without a certain dramatic force, and now lay prone at Vesta’s feet; and the children chanted, solemnly,—­

    “She’s dead because she loved him,
     She’s dead because she loved him,
     She’s dead because she loved him,
     The Highland Gates to die.”

This ended the game, and the children smiled joyously, while Euleta plumed herself like a little peacock, taking to herself the credit of all the interest shown by the young ladies.

“But what an extraordinary thing!” cried Bell; “Hildegarde, have you an idea what it can mean?”

Hildegarde shook her head.  “It must be something old,” she said.  “It must come from some old story or ballad.  Oh, if we could only find out!” They questioned the children eagerly, but could learn nothing.  It was merely, “The Highland Gates to Die,” and they had always played it, and everybody else always played it,—­that was all they knew.