t have learned early, because it
is so a part of him. Wasn't he head of his class most of the time? He
never will talk about it, but I am sure he must have been."

"I am not so sure about that," Gerald admitted; "I know he was the best
wrestler, and that he and my father were generally neck and neck in all
the running races. He was a better high kick, because his legs were
longer, don't you know, but the Pater was ahead in boxing."

Margaret was bewildered. Was this scholarship? Was this the record that
brilliant boys left behind them? She gave a little sigh; the mention of
long legs brought her back to Basil again. Dear Basil! he had only one
pair of knickerbockers left that was fit to be seen. She ought to be
mending the corduroys this moment, in case he should come home all in
pieces, as he was apt to do.

"Have you any little brothers, Mr. Merryweather?" she asked, following
the thread of her thought.

"One; Willy. That is, he's not so very little now, but he's a good bit
younger than Phil and I; Phil is my twin. Willy--oh, I suppose he must
be fourteen, or somewhere about there, to a field or two."

"Basil is twelve," said Margaret, thoughtfully. "And does he--or did he,
two years ago,--I suppose a boy develops very quickly,--did he want to
be climbing and jumping and running _all_ the time?"

"Let me see!" said Gerald, gravely. "Why--yes, I should say so, Miss
Montfort. Of course he stops now and then to eat; and then there's the
time that he's asleep, you know; you have to take out that. But
otherwise,--yes, I should say you had described Willy's existence pretty
well."

"And climbing on roofs?" Margaret went on. "And tumbling into bogs, and
turning somersaults? What _can_ be the pleasure of turning oneself
wrong side up and getting the blood into one's head?"

Margaret stopped suddenly, and the colour rushed into her face; no need
of somersaults in her case. For had not this young man been turning
somersaults the first time she saw him? And turning them in the same
senseless way, just for the joy of it, apparently? She glanced at him,
and he was blushing too; but he met her look of distress with one so
comic in its quizzical appeal, that she laughed in spite of herself.

"I love to turn somersaults!" he murmured. "'Twas the charm of my
chirping childhood; it is now the solace of my age. Don't be severe,
Miss Montfort. I turn them now, sometimes; I will not deceive you."

"Oh! oh, yes, I know!" said Ma