against his inclination, that it would be better manners to say good
night and take himself off.

"I think I must be going," he had begun already, when, from the open
door behind them, burst a long, low, melancholy wail. The girl started
violently. The young man bent his ear in swift attention. The voice--the
cry--trembled on the air, swelled to a shriek; then died slowly away
into a dreary whisper, and was gone.

Before either of the young people could speak, the library door was
flung open, and a wild figure came flying out. Miss Sophronia threw
herself once more upon Gerald, and clung to him with the energy of
desperation. "My dear young man!" cried the distracted lady. "Save me!
Protect me! I knew your father! I was at school with your
mother,--Miranda Cheerley. Save me,--hold me! Do not desert me! You are
my only hope!"

It was past nine o'clock when Gerald Merryweather finally took his
departure. The children had been discovered,--in bed, and apparently
asleep. Three neatly folded piles of clothes showed at least that they
had gone to bed in a proper and reasonable manner. Miss Sophronia
Montfort had finally been quieted, by soothing words and promises,
followed up by hot malted milk and checkerberry cordial, the latter
grimly administered by Frances, and so strong that it made the poor lady
sneeze. Margaret was to sleep with her; Gerald was to come the next
morning to see how she was; meanwhile, Frances and Elizabeth, the latter
badly frightened, the former entirely cool and self-possessed, were to
sleep in the front chamber, and be at hand in case of any untoward
event.

There was nothing further to be done save to shake hands warmly with
Margaret, submit to an embrace from Miss Sophronia, and go. Mr.
Merryweather strode slowly down the garden path, looking back now and
then at the house, where already the lights on the lower floor were
being extinguished one by one.

"That's a very nice girl!" he murmured. "Hildegarde would approve of
that girl, I know. But on the other hand, my son, that is a horrid old
lady. I should like--Jerry, my blessed infant, I _should_ like--to make
that old lady run!" He turned for a final glance at the house;
considered the advisability of turning a handspring; remembered his
white flannels, and, with a bow to the corner window, was gone in the
darkness.

CHAPTER XIII.

WHO DID IT?

"Frightened, was she?" said Mrs. Peyton. "How sad! Margaret, you are not
looking a