me eight inches square, of ebony or some
other dark wood, banded with silver. On the lid were inlaid, also in
silver, the letters C. M.

"Christina Montfort!" said Margaret. "Oh, to think of my being the one
to find it!"

"I should like to know who else had the right to find it!" said Gerald.
"Punch their--I mean, of course, if they were fellows; I beg your
pardon, Miss Montfort."

"It is locked," said Margaret. "We must wait, and try some of Uncle
John's keys."

"Take care!" exclaimed Gerald. "The bottom is dropping out. Hold your
hand under it!"

As he spoke, the bottom of the box, which was of some soft wood and had
rotted through, dropped, and something rolled out and fell into
Margaret's hand. She held it up to the light. It was a hawk's egg,
neatly blown.

CHAPTER XII.

THE EGG OF COLUMBUS

"Why, yes!" said Mr. Montfort. "It is my egg, certainly."

"Oh, Uncle John!"

"Well, sir, then--"

"Then you know all the--"

"Was it--"

"Did you--"

"Tell am what--"

Mr. Montfort put his hands resolutely over his ears, and shut his eyes.
"When you are still," he said, "I will tell you all about it; till then
I am a blind deaf-mute, with no benefit of modern instruction."

A swift rustle, followed by dead silence. Cautiously opening his eyes,
Mr. Montfort saw the whole company seated on the floor around his chair,
gazing at him with imploring eyes, but motionless and mute. He laughed
heartily, and threw himself back in his chair.

"I promised you a merry game," he said. "Have you had it?"

The young people nodded like mandarins, but uttered no sound.

"I promised you nothing more. In fact, I warned you not to expect
anything more. On your own heads be egg and emptiness.

"Well, well!" he added, "since you are so good and dutiful, you shall
have the whole truth. I found the box some forty years ago, when I first
stumbled on that closet. My dear mother was timid, and had a great dread
of the Mysteries of Fernley, imagining a secret staircase in every wall,
and an oubliette under every floor. Somebody had frightened her when she
came here as a child, by showing her I forget what dark passage or
closet. So we were never officially told of the various pleasant places
devised by the eccentric old ancestor, Peter, who, I have always
believed, was a smuggler before he was a patriot, and hid kegs as well
as commanders in his smoke-closet. You know the story of General
Blankley and the hams, Hugh? R