Hildegardes Neighbors | Page 9

will
have to make full confession, Hilda," she said. "I do not think Mrs.
Merryweather will be very severe with you."
"It is a dreadful thing to confess," said Hildegarde, laughing and
blushing. "I--to tell the truth, I happened to be walking in our garden,
on the other side of the tall hedge, just when you drove up, the other
day; and--there is a most convenient little peep- hole, and I wanted to
see our new neighbours, and--and--I peeped! Are you much shocked,
Mrs. Merryweather? I heard several names,-- Bell, and Toots, and--I--I
heard the handsome red-haired boy called Obadiah."
The Merryweathers laughed merrily, and Mrs. Merryweather was about
to speak, when a voice was heard in the hall, chanting in a singular,
nasal key,--
"Dropsy dropped a book, And she's going to be shook! Dropsy dropped
a volume, Which makes her very solume!"

The door was pushed open, and the handsome red-haired boy entered,
walking on his hands, holding aloft between his feet the missing "Soul's
Conflict."
"My son Gerald," said Mrs. Merryweather, with a wicked smile.
"Gerald, my love, Mrs. and Miss Grahame."
If Hildegarde was crimson (and she undoubtedly was), Gerald
Merryweather was brilliant scarlet when he rose to his feet and saluted
the strangers; but he was also atwinkle with laughter, the whole lithe,
graceful body of him seeming to radiate fun. One glance at Bell,
another at Hildegarde, and the whole party broke into peal on peal of
merriment.
"How do you do?" said Scarlet to Crimson, holding out a strong brown
hand, and gripping hers cordially. "Awfully glad! Please excuse me,
Mrs. Grahame, for coming in like that. I thought there was no one here
but the mother, and she is as used to one end of me as the other."
"So you are Gerald, and not Obadiah." said Mrs. Grahame. "I
congratulate you on the prettier name."
"Oh, Ferguson calls me Obadiah!" said Gerald, laughing again. "He's
the other of me, you know. Beg pardon! you don't know, perhaps. We
are twins, Ferguson and I."
"And Ferguson, my dear Mrs. Grahame," interposed Mrs.
Merryweather, "is my son Philip. Why these boys cannot call each
other by their rightful names is a family mystery; but so it is."
"Is your brother Fer--Philip like you?" asked Hildegarde, feeling sure
that he was not, as the other boy she had seen certainly had not red hair.
"Not a bit!" replied Gerald, cheerfully. "No resemblance, I believe.
'Beauty and the Beast' we call each other, too. Sometimes I am Beauty,
and more times I am the Beast; depends on which has had his hair cut
last."
"Or brushed," said Bell, glancing at the curly hair, which was certainly
in rather a wild condition.
"Oh, yes! beg pardon!" said Gerald, glancing ruefully at the mirror, and
running his hand through his curly mop.
"Beast this time, and no mistake. Grass rather long, you see, and tore
my locks of gold. Happy thought! Desiring to tear your hair in sorrow,
walk on hands through long grass; effect admirable. Wonder Hamlet
never tried it!"

"Hamlet's hair was black," said Toots, seriously.
"And therefore he could not walk on his hands," said Gerald. "I see!
Dropsy, you are a genius; that's the trouble with you."
A long gray leg appeared at the open window, and after waving wildly
for a moment, disappeared suddenly.
"Ferguson!" said Gerald, turning to Hildegarde. "His mountain way!
Becoming aware of your presence, he has retired, to reverse legs, and
will shortly reappear, fondly hoping that you did not see him before."
Sure enough, in a few moments another tall boy entered, looking
preternaturally grave, with his hair scrupulously smooth.
"Been upstairs, you see," said the irrepressible Gerald, "and slicked
himself all up. Quite the Beauty, Fergs."
"Gerald, do be quiet!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "This is Philip, my
other twin boy, Mrs. Grahame."
Philip greeted Hildegarde and her mother with grave courtesy, taking
no notice of his brother's gibes.
"You find us in a good deal of confusion," he said to Hildegarde, sitting
down on a table, the only available seat. "It takes a long time to get
settled, don't you think so?"
"Oh--yes!" said Hildegarde, struggling for composure, and conscious of
Gerald's eyes fixed intently on her. "But you all look so home-like and
comfortable here."
"Especially Ferguson!" broke in Gerald, sotto voce. "How comfortable
he looks, doesn't he, Miss Grahame? No use, Fergs! We marked your
little footprints in the air, my son."
"Oh!" said Philip, looking much discomposed. "Well, I'll punch your
head, Obe, anyhow."
"Suppose we come out and look at the tennis-court," said Bell. "I am
sure you play tennis, Miss Grahame."
"Indeed I do," said Hildegarde, heartily. "I have often looked longingly
at that nice smooth lawn, and I hoped you were going