Then the woods closed in behind the carriage and it was gone.

Gerald looked long after it; then he advanced to the middle of the piazza, and deliberately turned three back somersaults.

“Would anybody like to tread on the tail of my coat?” he said, joyously.  “Phil, you are a double-barrelled, self-revolving idiot, but I love you.  Join me, then, in three cheers for the Codger.  Long may he wave!  Now, then, hip, hip, hurrah!”

“Hurrah!” cried Phil, who had received enlightenment in some way, and was beaming like his brother.

“Hurrah!” cried Mrs. Merryweather and Bell in concert, fixing eyes of triumph on their husband and father.

“Hurrah it is, doubtless,” said Mr. Merryweather, looking slightly nettled,—­a rare thing in the most cheerful of men.  “But may I ask why my arrangements are changed without a word to me?  I intended that Phil should—­”

“Dear Miles!” said his wife.  “I am sorry I called you names.”

“Dear papa!” said the Merryweathers in chorus; “we all love you so much!”

“And were you ever young?” asked Mrs. Merryweather, no longer swelling, partridge-like, but taking her husband’s arm with her sweetest smile.

“And did you ever see a girl you liked, Miles Merryweather? and if you ever had, would you have let another boy drive her in town while the breath was in you?  Would you?”

“Oh!” said Miles Merryweather.

THE END