“Improving? sacrilegious wretch!”

“Oh, but listen!  Why should a ballad be too old to be improved?  This goes beautifully.

    “Our lads are to the fishing gane,
       A-fishing with a line and float,
     And they hae grippet Hilda the Grahame,
       For stealing o’ the Codger’s boat.”

“I didn’t steal it!” cried Hilda, aiming a neatly folded stocking-ball at the boy’s head; but Gerald avoided it, and went on.

    “And they hae tied her hand and foot,
       And brought her to the camp, wuss luck! 
     The lads and lasses met her there,
       Cried ‘Hilda Grahame, thou art a duck!’”

“Obadiah, you are a very impudent boy.  Wait till Monday week, that’s all!  But go on; let me hear all this villainy.”

    “Up then spake the brave Gerald,
       As he sat by the Codger’s knee,
    ’Fifteen horned pouts I’ll give to you,
       If you’ll let Hilda the Grahame go free.’

   “‘Oh haud your tongue,’ says Roger the Codger,
       ’And wie your pleading let me be;
     For though-’”

“Hallo!”

“What is the matter?” asked Bell, who had been listening with high approval to the ballad.  “Why, here is the Codger himself, back again.  I thought he was not coming till night.  What’s up, Codger?”

Bell and Hildegarde rose, with a vague feeling of uneasiness, and as they did so, Roger advanced to meet them.  Hilda fancied he looked grave, and her heart leaped into quick alarm.  “You have no bad news, Captain Roger?” she cried.  “My mother—­Cousin Wealthy—!”

“Both well, quite well!” said Roger, hastily.  “I called at the house as I came by, and found Mrs. Grahame there, looking extremely well, I thought.”

“Mamma there!” cried Hilda.  “Why—­when did she come?  Why did she not write that she was coming?  I ought to have been there to meet her.  You are sure you have nothing bad to tell me, Captain Roger?  You looked so grave as you came up.  I would rather know at once, please, if anything is wrong.”

Roger smiled, and his honest eyes reassured the startled girl.

“You may believe me,” he said, simply.  “If I looked grave, it was not on your account, Miss Hilda, but on our own.  A letter must have gone astray, your mother thinks.  You should have heard from her several days ago; and—­and she is expecting visitors to-morrow, and—­well, if I must tell the truth, the carriage is here, and I am to drive you home as soon as you are ready.”

A cry of dismay broke from the lips of the whole family; a cry so hearty, so full of distress, of affectionate concern, that it brought the quick tears to Hilda’s eyes.  She smiled through the tears at Bell, who already had her in her arms, and declared she could not let her go; while Will and Kitty pulled at her gown, and cried frantically that Hilda was theirs, and should never go away, never at all.  Mrs. Merryweather smoothed her hair, and murmured kind, understanding words in a low tone; and Gertrude sat down on the ground and wept piteously.