The Merryweathers Part 26

"Why, he is a dear, gentle creature!" said the girl. "I shall never be afraid of him again. And yet--oh, Gerald, I am so glad you came!"

"So am I!" said Gerald.

"Because," Margaret went on, "of course, I see how silly and foolish I was; but all the same, I was terribly frightened, and I really don't know what would have become of me if you had not come, Gerald."

"But I did come, Margaret! I will always come, whenever you want me, if it is across the world."

"But--you must think me so _very_ silly, Gerald!"

"Do you wish to know what I think of you?" asked Gerald.

Margaret was silent.

"Because, for the insignificant sum of two cents, I would tell you," he went on.

"I haven't two cents with me," said Margaret. "I think it is time to go home now, Gerald."

"Generosity is part of my nature," said Gerald; "I'll tell you for nothing. Margaret--sit down, please!"

Margaret had risen to her feet. The words had the old merry ring, but a deep note quivered in his voice. The girl was afraid, she knew not of what; afraid, yet with a fear that was half joy. "I--I must go, Gerald, indeed!" she said, faintly.

"You must not go," said Gerald, gravely. "It is not all play, Margaret, between you and me. My cap and bells are off now, and you must hear what I have to say."

Margaret, still hesitating, looked up in his face, and saw something there that brought the sweet color flooding over her neck and brow, so swift and hot that instinctively she hid her face in her hands.

But gently, tenderly, Gerald Merryweather drew the slender hands away, and held them close in his own.

"My dearest girl," said the young man, "my dearest love, you are not afraid of me? Sit down by me; sit down, my Margaret, and let me tell you what my heart has been saying ever since the day I first saw you."

So dear Margaret sat down, perhaps because she could hardly stand, and listened. And the black cattle listened, too, and so did the fish-hawk overhead, and the little birds peeping from their nest in the birch wood close at hand; but none of them ever told what Gerald said.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE SNOWY OWL

"I THINK it is a horrid bother, if you want to know!" said w.i.l.l.y.

"w.i.l.l.y Merryweather! aren't you ashamed of yourself? I never heard anything so odious, when we are all so happy, and everything is so perfectly lovely. I don't see what you mean."

"I don't care, it _is_ a bother. Nothing is the way it used to be; it's all nothing but spooning, all over the lot."

"I should not think you would use vulgar expressions, anyhow, w.i.l.l.y."

"'Spooning' isn't vulgar," said w.i.l.l.y, sulkily. "I've heard Pa say it, so there! And--look here, Kitty! Of course, it's all corking, and so on, and anyhow, girls like that kind of fuss; but it does spoil everything, I tell you. Why, Pa couldn't get a crew for the war canoe yesterday. He wanted to go to Pine Cove--at least I did, awfully, and he said all right, so we would; and then Jerry was off with Margaret in the _Keewaydin_, and Bell and Jack were out in the woods fiddling, and Peggy and Phil--I say, Kitty! You don't suppose _they_ are going to get spoony, do you?"

Kitty looked very wise, and pursed her lips and nodded her head with an air of deep mystery.

"You don't!" repeated w.i.l.l.y, looking aghast.

"Hush, w.i.l.l.y!" said Kitty. "Don't say a word! don't breathe it to anybody! I hope--I _think_ they are!"

"What a mean, horrid shame!" cried w.i.l.l.y, indignantly. "I do think it is disgusting."

His sister turned on him with flashing eyes. "It is you that is the shame!" she cried. "It is you who ought to be ashamed, w.i.l.l.y. Do you want poor Phil to be all alone when Jerry is married? Do you know that twins sometimes pine away and _die_, w.i.l.l.y Merryweather, when the other of them dies?"

"Jerry isn't going to die," said w.i.l.l.y, uncomfortably. "What nonsense you talk, Kitty."

"Well, marries. I should think very likely they would, then, if they didn't get married themselves. I think you are perfectly heartless, w.i.l.l.y. And dear Peggy, too, so nice and jolly! and if she goes away back out West _without_ falling in love with Phil, we may never, never see her again; and she has promised me a puppy of the very next litter Simmerimmeris has. So there!"

w.i.l.l.y was silent for a moment, kicking the pebbles thoughtfully.

"Do you think she is--that?" he asked at length, shamefacedly.

"Of course I don't _know_!" said Kitty, judicially. "Of course very likely nothing is positively decided yet; but I am sure she likes him very, very much, and he takes her out whenever he has a chance."

"There's n.o.body else for him to take out," put in w.i.l.l.y; "the others are all spoon--"

"w.i.l.l.y, don't be tiresome! and just think! if they should get married and go to live out West, then you and I could both go out to see them, and ride all the ponies, and punch the cows, and have real la.s.soes, and--and--"

The children were coming home through the wood. Kitty's voice had gradually risen, till now it was a shrill squeak of excitement; but at this moment it broke off suddenly, for there was a rustling of branches, and the next moment Gertrude stood before them with grave looks.

"My dear chicks," she said, "you must not talk so loud. I was in the pine parlor, and could not help hearing the last part of what you were saying. And anyhow, I would not talk about such things, if I were you.

Suppose Peggy had been with me! How do you think she would have felt?

Mammy would not like to have you gossiping in this foolish way."

The children hung their heads.

"Oh! Toots," said Kitty, "I am sorry! I didn't realize that we were getting anywhere near the house. We were only thinking--at least I was--how lovely it would be if Peggy and Phil should--"

"Kitty dear, hush!" said Gertrude, decidedly. "You would better not think, and you certainly _must not_ talk, about anything of the kind.

There are enough real love-affairs to interest you, you little match-maker, without your building castles in the air. Let Peggy and Phil alone!"

"I should think there were!" said w.i.l.l.y. "That's just what I was saying, Toots; it's nothing but spooning, all over the place. There's no fun anywhere; this wretched love-making spoils everything. _I_ think it's perfectly childish."

"Do you, w.i.l.l.y dear?" said his sister; and her smile was very sweet as she laid her hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Yes, I do. Here are the white perch rising like a house afire, and I can't get a soul to go with me. It was just the same yesterday, and it's like that almost every day now."

"Oh, w.i.l.l.y! I'll go with you," cried Kitty, eagerly. "Why didn't you tell me the perch were rising? Let's come right along this minute. Toots will help us with the boat, won't you, Toots?"

"Yes, I'll help!" said the Snowy Owl.

Ten minutes later the white boat was speeding on her way to the fishing-ground, the little rowers bending to their oars, chattering merrily as they went.

"That's one comfort!" w.i.l.l.y was saying. "We've got Toots. n.o.body will get her away from us."