you, Basil? Have you on a tight boot to-day? Does your corn pinch you?"
"No, I've got over those small ailments," said Basil. "What a roundabout you are, Marjorie," he continued, pinching her cheek. "Now, what's the matter? You are quite frowning."
Marjorie's round good-humored freckled face wore an expression of consternation.
"I made some slippers during the term for you," she said. "They're large, and I wadded them so that they are most comfortable. But – it isn't that – the slippers are in your room, I put them there – Ermie, won't you get out?"
"No," said Ermengarde. "I'm going to drive down to the house."
Marjorie frowned more than ever.
"They are all coming up from the shore; Miss Nelson, and all of them; and they'll see the horses and they'll run. Even Miss Nelson will run, she's so fond of Basil, and – "
Mr. Wilton, who still remained in the carriage by Ermengarde's side, now interposed.
"We won't wait for the small fry," he said. "We'll drive on to the house at once. Oh, yes, Eric, you can go to meet the party from the shore of course, if you like, and Basil too."
"I'll stay with Ermie," said Basil.
He jumped into the carriage again, and they drove down the long winding avenue to the house.
Great elm trees shaded the avenue, and Basil pushed back his cap and looked up into the green. He was a dark and handsome lad, and his expression was unusually thoughtful for his years.
"How grand those old trees are!" he said. "Whenever I think of home while I'm away, I remember the old elm trees in the avenue, and the rooks' nests – I remember, too – " Here he stopped suddenly, and a wave of red mantled his cheeks. Ermengarde's bright eyes were fixed on him; she guessed his thoughts. Basil had often walked under those elm trees with his mother.
Mr. Wilton had opened the Times, and was not attending to the chatter of the young folk.
"You don't look quite the thing, Ermie," said Basil in a low voice.
"I'm perfectly well," she replied.
"But you turned quite white that time at the lodge. I noticed it. That time when Marjorie wanted you to get out. Have you been worrying yourself lately? You know you are such a girl to mope, and make mountains out of mole-hills. School would be the place for you."
Mr. Wilton dropped his paper.
"Are you recommending school for Ermengarde?" he said. "Sometimes I have thought of it, but your mother had a prejudice against school-life for girls, and Ermie does very well with Miss Nelson and the masters who come here to instruct her. Now here we are, and here's your Aunt Elizabeth."
Miss Wilton was not a graceful woman. She was a feminine edition of her brother, and Mr. Wilton, although handsome as a man, had by no means the type of face which best lends itself to womanly graces.
Miss Wilton was standing on the steps in a riding-habit. Her horse had just been taken round to the stables. She had her whip in her hand, and her masses of hair looked untidy – her face, too, was flushed.
"Really, Roderick," she said to her brother, "that groom is past bearing. He had the impertinence – Oh, is that you, Basil? So you've come back – how are you? Now one thing I do beg, and that is, that you never come into the house except by the side door, and that you and Eric keep your pets to yourselves. I don't mind what is done behind the schoolroom doors, but I will not – I cannot – permit messy lounging school-boys in my part of the house. Roderick, what is the matter? Are you laughing at me?"
"I think I am, Elizabeth," replied Mr. Wilton. "Boys will be boys, and no one can accuse Basil of lounging."
Miss Wilton had a very hearty loud laugh herself. She indulged in it now, and going up to Basil, hit him a blow on the shoulders.
"You're a true Wilton," she said. "By and by I'll be proud of you – by and by I'll want your help. You shall ride with me, and keep those lazy intolerable grooms in some sort of order, but just at present your place is in the schoolroom part of the house. Ermengarde! You here? Has Miss Nelson promoted you to drive in the carriage? That is an honor only conferred on very good children."
Ermengarde hated to be called a child. She disliked her Aunt Elizabeth's manner to her at all times, and now she flushed and frowned, and looked decidedly unamiable.
"Come, Basil," she said, touching her brother on his arm.
"No, miss, you're not to go with that cross face on," said her aunt. "Look pleasant, or I shall desire Miss Nelson on no account to permit you to drive with your father again. What is it, Roderick? What's the matter?"
"Leave the poor child alone," said Mr. Wilton. "Run away, chicks, both of you; run off and be happy. Now, Elizabeth, what is this story about the groom?"
Ermengarde slipped her hand within Basil's arm, and they both walked round to the other side of the house. High tea was spread in the pleasant schoolroom. Miss Nelson, who looked worried and over-tired, was desiring her pupils to take their places. All the nursery children were to sup in the schoolroom to-night, in honor of the boys' return, and nurse was bringing in toddling Ethel, and little Dick and Bobby, and placing them in their chairs, and then cutting bread-and-butter for them.
Basil rushed down a side passage to a lavatory to wash his hands, and Ermengarde flew upstairs to dispose of her best hat. Miss Nelson had not noticed it.
When the elder boy and girl came into the room the meal had commenced. Marjorie, as usual, was trotting from chair to chair, helping everyone, pushing the butter nearer to little Mollie, the youngest schoolroom child, stopping Bobby's rebellious lips with strawberries, and lugging a great jug of milk in her arms, and with a red face, and chubby hands that would tremble under their load, refilling mugs of milk as fast as they got empty.
"That will do now, Marjorie; you can sit down," called out Miss Nelson.
Marjorie subsided at once into a seat beside Eric.
"Ermengarde," said her governess, glancing quickly at her eldest pupil; "you are late again for tea. You forfeit five marks."
"Oh, I say," exclaimed Basil, "I'm late, too, Miss Nelson. And it wasn't Ermie's fault, her being late this time; she could not help herself. Why, what is the matter, Ermie?"
Ermengarde had given him a shove under the table. He looked round at her, guessed that she did not wish him to say something, and instantly subsided into absolute silence.
Basil was a favorite of Miss Nelson's. He was a kind-hearted lad; he had something of Marjorie's spirit, and was always willing to throw himself into breaches, to heal disputes, to be a sort of peacemaker and server all round. Miss Nelson dreaded beyond anything the long summer vacation when the boys were home from school, and the girls had only half work. These were the weeks for disputes, for quarrels, for disagreeables, for scrapes. During these weeks poor Miss Nelson's hair became more gray, and her face more wrinkled and anxious; but she dreaded the holidays, not because Basil was at home, but on account of Eric, who was a perfect imp of mischief, and because all the home children were more or less demoralized by his presence.
Now Miss Nelson smiled into Basil's eyes, handed him a plate of the best strawberries, and after a pause, said: "You'd like me not to punish Ermengarde?"
"Of course I should; she has done nothing to be punished for."
