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Page 53
For a moment every heart stood still. Then Mrs. Merryweather began
to cry, and Bell and Gertrude and Kitty all fell into her arms and
round her neck, and sobbed in chorus; but the boys started to
their feet with a wild "Hurrah!" and dashed out of the house,
followed by their father and Willy. For now, clearer every moment
and clearer, came ringing across the water the words of the Skye
Boat Song, sung by joyous voices of a youth and a maiden.
"Speed, bonny boat, like a bird on the wing,
Onward, the sailors cry.
Carry the lad that's born to be king
Over the sea to Skye."
"But Roger is not a king!" said Gerald, with a queer little break
in his voice. "He is only a codger!"
CHAPTER XIV.
ROGER THE CODGER.
"Miranda!" said Roger.
"Yes, my dear brother!"
"Tum te-tiddle-de-tum, tum, tum, tum!"
"Yes, my dear brother."
"I--oh, I beg your pardon; that isn't what I meant to say, of
course. A--the moon is in perigee now, you know."
"Roger," said his sister-in-law, looking up from her sewing, "you
know there is no earthly use in saying that kind of thing to me.
'Perigee' suggests nothing to me but periwig, and it is painful to
think of the moon in so unbecoming a head-gear. Are you quite sure
that THAT was what you were going to say?"
Roger laughed, looked a little confused, and threw stones into the
water; Mrs. Merryweather sewed on buttons and waited.
"I shall be twenty-five next week," was the professor's next
remark. "I--a--I am getting to be quite an old fogy."
"Your teeth and digestion are still good," said his sister-in-law,
with provoking composure; "and you are able--generally speaking--
to get about without a stick."
"Pshaw!" said Roger. He laughed again, and threw out his powerful
arms. He was lying at full length on the verandah, his handsome
head propped against one of the pillars, framed in a mass of
woodbine and trumpet-vine. Mrs. Merryweather looked at him, and
thought that with the exception of her Miles and her boys, she had
never seen a finer-looking fellow. Every line of the lithe,
elastic figure was instinct with power; the face, from the broad
upright brow to the firm chin, was alight with thought and
intelligence. But the blue eyes, usually so clear in their grave
gaze, held a shadow to-day, a curious look of shyness, one might
almost say shamefacedness. Mrs. Merryweather gazed at him, and
thought her own thoughts, but she knew her husband's family, and
held her peace.
"That is a very lovely girl, Miranda!" was the Professor's next
remark.
"Meaning Gertrude--?" said this wicked woman, innocently.
"Oh,--I mean Hilda, of course! She is remarkably intelligent,
don't you think so?"
Mrs. Merryweather assented warmly, and added praises of her own.
Hildegarde's little ears would surely have burned if she could
have heard the good lady. As for Roger, he listened with great
complacency.
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