it was pretty cruel, all the same. And--did you ever find the brown
gingham?"

"Oh, that _was_ naughty!" cried Gertrude. "He buried it all in the back
garden. That was truly naughty of Papa. Mammy found them there a week
after, when she was setting out the asters. They were all neatly laid in
a box, and buried quite deep down. But Mammy took them up, and sent them
to the Orphans' Home. Dear Mammy!"

CHAPTER IX.

AN EVENING HOUR.

"AND what shall we play this evening?" asked Mrs. Merryweather.

Hildegarde and her mother had been taking tea at Pumpkin House. Hugh was
there, too, and now Colonel Ferrers had come in, so the cheerful party
was nearly complete.

"If we only had Roger and Papa!" sighed Bell. "Nothing seems just right
without the whole clan together."

"We shall have them soon," said her mother. "Meanwhile let us be merry,
and honour their name. It is too soon after tea for charades, I suppose.
Why not try the Alphabet Stories?"

"Alphabet Stories?" repeated Hildegarde. "Is that a new game? I don't
seem to remember it."

"Brand-new!" cried Gerald. "Mater invented it one evening, to keep us
quiet when Pater had a headache. Jolly good game, too. Tell Hildegarde
one or two of yours, Mater, to show how it's played."

"Let me see! Can I remember any? Oh, yes, here is one! Listen, Hilda,
and you will catch the idea at once. This is called 'The Actions of
Alcibiades:' Alcibiades, brilliant, careless, dashing, engaging fop,
guarded Hellas in jeopardy, king-like led many nobles on. Pouncing quite
rashly, stole (though unduly, violently wailing) Xerxes's young zebra.

"That is the story. You see, it must have twenty-six words, no more, no
less; each word beginning with a successive letter of the alphabet."

"Oh! delightful! enchanting!" cried Hildegarde. "Mammina, this is the
very game for you and me. We have been longing for a new one, ever since
we played 'Encyclopaedics' to death. Tell us another, please, Mrs.
Merryweather!"

"Let me see! Oh, but they are not all mine! Bell made some of the best
ones. I will give you another, though. This is 'A Spanish Serenade.'
Andalusian bowers, castanets, dances, enraptured Figaro. Gallant
hidalgo, infuriately jealous, kittenish lady, made nocturnal orisons.
'Peri! Queen! Star!' Then, under veiled windows, Ximena yielded.
Zounds!"

"That is extremely connotative!" said Mrs. Grahame. "This really is an
excellent game. Colonel Ferrers, shall we enter the