eadache, you may bet your boots--"

"Basil, she asked you not to say that, and you said you wouldn't."

"Well, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to. Pull out a hair, Susan D., and then
I shall remember next time. Ouch! You pulled out two."

"I say, come on!" cried Merton. "We've got lots of things to see to. We
have to--"

The voices were gone. Margaret sat still, sewing steadily, and working
many thoughts into her seam.

It might have been half an hour after this that Basil burst into the
room, breathless and beaming, his tow-colored hair standing on end. "Oh,
Cousin Margaret, can I--I mean may I, go over to the bog? Mr.
Merryweather said he would give me a lesson in surveying; and Frances is
going to put me up some luncheon, and I'm in a _norful_ hurry. May I go,
please?"

"Yes, Basil; you may go after you have answered me one question."

"Yes, Cousin Margaret," said the diplomat. "I may miss Mr. Merryweather
if I don't go pretty quick, but of course I will."

"Basil, did you make that strange noise last night?"

"No, Cousin Margaret!" cried the boy; the smile seemed to break from
every corner of his face at once, and his eyes looked straight truth
into hers. "I did not. Is that all? You said one question! Thank you
ever and ever so much! Good-bye!" And he was gone.

"It is quite evident that I am not a dipplo-mat," said Margaret, with a
laugh that ended in a sigh. "I wish Uncle John would come home!"

CHAPTER XIV.

BLACK SPIRITS AND WHITE.

The evening fell close and hot. Gerald Merryweather, taking his way to
Fernley House, noticed the great white thunder-heads peering above the
eastern horizon. "There'll be trouble by and by," he said.

"I wonder, oh, I wonder,
If they're afraid of thunder.

"Ever lapsing into immortal verse, my son. You are the Lost Pleiad of
Literature, that's what you are; and a mighty neat phrase that is. Oh,
my Philly, why aren't you here, to take notice of my coruscations? Full
many a squib is born to blaze unseen, and waste its fizzing--Hello, you,
sir! Stop a minute, will you?"

A small boy was scudding along the path before him. He turned his head,
but on seeing Gerald he only doubled his rate of speed. Merton was a
good runner for his size, but it was ill trying to race the Gambolling
Greyhound, as Gerald had been called at school. Two or three quick
steps, two or three long, lopping bounds, and Master Merton was caught,
clutched by the collar, and held