"Something seems to be happening to
the moon."

Something _was_ happening to the moon. It was as if a piece had been
bitten out of the shining round. Was it a little cloud? no! no cloud
could possibly look like that, so black, so thick, so--"Good gracious!"
said Mrs. Merryweather; "it is an eclipse!"

An eclipse it certainly was. Slowly, surely, the black shadow crept,
crept, over the silver disk; now a quarter of its surface was hidden;
now it went creeping, creeping on toward the half.

"It is going to be a total eclipse!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "I suppose
I ought to wake some of them."

She stood a moment more, looking irresolutely at the sleeping children.
"I cannot possibly wake them!" she said at last. "Little lambs! they are
sleeping so beautifully, and they certainly were _not_ quite themselves
this afternoon. Besides, there will be plenty more eclipses; I'll go and
wake some of the others."

The black shadow crept on. Hardly less silent, Mrs. Merryweather paused
before the tent where her daughters slept. Bell and Gertrude scorned
cots, and their mattresses were spread on the floor at night, and rolled
up in the daytime. There the two girls lay, still and placid,
statue-like, save for the gentle heaving of their quiet breasts. A fair
picture for a mother to look on. Miranda Merryweather looked, and drew a
happy breath; looked again, and shook her head. "I cannot wake them!"
she murmured to herself. "They are both tired after that expedition;
Bell paddled very hard on the way back; she was much more flushed than I
like to see her, when she came in. And Gertrude sleeps so lightly, I
fear she might not get to sleep again if I were to wake her now."

The black shadow crept on; the mother crept into the boys' tent, and
stood beside Gerald's cot. The lad lay with his arms flung wide apart;
his curly hair was tossed over his broad open forehead; his clear-cut
features were set as if in marble.

"He has such a beautiful forehead!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "He sleeps
so very sound, that if I were to wake him he might not be able to sleep
again. Dear Jerry!"

She moved over to Phil's cot: Phil was uneasy, and as she stopped to
straighten the bedclothes, he turned on his side, muttering something
that sounded like "Bother breakfast!"

"Poor laddie!" said Mrs. Merryweather. "He looks as if he might have a
headache. I wish I had made him take a nice little cup of hot malted
milk before he went to bed. It is out of