merry neighbours? They made a good
deal of noise sometimes, but they all meant so well, and were so hearty
and genuine. Gerald was the most like Roger, after all; she had never
noticed before how much alike they were. Dear Jerry! He had always been
her favourite, though Phil was as nice as he could be, and, of course,
she was very, very fond of Bell, and all of them. How perfectly clear
and still it was! Silver and pearl and diamond,--oh, what beauty!

"Deep on the convent roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon."

She wondered if her white dress was really the one she should have worn,
or whether--whether any one would have thought the pink one prettier.
No; he always liked white; she remembered his saying so. There was a
light in the corner room of Pumpkin House; ah, yes! it was Roger's room.
Such a funny room, all full of minerals and dried specimens, and with
lengths of copper wire hanging all about the walls. Jerry said that
Roger had put them there against the time he should be crossed in love,
so that he could hang himself whenever he felt like it. What was it he
had brought for her? A specimen, probably. No! for he had made it
himself. What was he doing now, she wondered. Oh, it was so good, so
good, to know that he was near, and that she should see him in the
morning!

"But now," said Hildegarde, shaking her shoulders, and pulling herself
together, "you are going to bed, miss! Let me have no more of this
ridiculous moon-gazing, do you hear? Have you any sense? Take one look
at the white glory of it, and then off with you!"

Wrapping a shawl round her (for she was still in her white evening
dress, though it was an hour and more since she came back from
Roseholme), she opened the window for an instant,--softly, for fear of
rousing her mother, and leaned out, to take one deep draught of the
magical beauty of the night. As she gazed, held as with a charm,--what
was that, that seemed to move by the corner of the hedge? What was it,
white against the snow, that was stealing along by the garden wall,
silent as a dream? Was she, indeed, dreaming? Hildegarde's heart stood
still for a moment. A little figure came forward now across the
lawn,--it stood out clear against the dark firs. Good heavens! It was
little Hugh! Barefoot, in his white nightgown, his head held high, his
eyes gazing straight forward, the child came on, with swift, certain
steps. One more glance told Hildegarde the truth; he