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H. O. took no notice of this at all, except to say: “I think you are very rude, and not at all funny, if you think you are.”

The lady said: “My dear, I remember you now perfectly. How are all the others, and are you pilgrims again to-day?”

H. O. does not always answer questions. He turned to the man and said:

“Are you going to marry the lady?”

“Margaret,” said the clergyman, “I never thought it would come to this: he asks me my intentions!”

“If you are,” said H. O., “it’s all right; because if you do, Albert’s uncle can’t–at least, not till you’re dead. And we don’t want him to.”

“Flattering, upon my word,” said the clergyman, putting on a deep frown. “Shall I call him out, Margaret, for his poor opinion of you, or shall I send for the police?”

Alice now saw that H. O., though firm, was getting muddled and rather scared. She broke cover and sprang into the middle of the scene.

“Don’t let him rag H. O. any more,” she said, “it’s all our faults. You see, Albert’s uncle was so anxious to find you, we thought perhaps you were his long-lost heiress sister or his old nurse who alone knew the secret of his birth, or something, and we asked him, and he said you were his long-lost grandmother he had known in India. And we thought that must be a mistake and that really you were his long-lost sweetheart. And we tried to do a really unselfish act and find you for him. Because we don’t want him to be married at all.”

“It isn’t because we don’t like you,” Oswald cut in, now emerging from the bushes; “and if he must marry, we’d sooner it was you than any one. Really we would.”

“A generous concession, Margaret,” the strange clergyman uttered, “most generous, but the plot thickens. It’s almost pea-soup-like now. One or two points clamor for explanation. Who are these visitors of yours? Why this Red Indian method of paying morning calls? Why the lurking attitude of the rest of the tribe which I now discern among the undergrowth? Won’t you ask the rest of the tribe to come out and join the glad throng?”

Then I liked him better. I always like people who know the same songs we do, and books and tunes and things.

The others came out. The lady looked very uncomfy, and partly as if she was going to cry. But she couldn’t help laughing, too, as more and more of us came out.

“And who,” the clergyman went on–“who in fortune’s name is Albert? And who is his uncle? And what have they or you to do in this galere –I mean garden?”

We all felt rather silly, and I don’t think I ever felt more than then what an awful lot there were of us.

“Three years’ absence in Calcutta or elsewhere may explain my ignorance of these details, but still–“

“I think we’d better go,” said Dora. “I’m sorry if we’ve done anything rude or wrong. We didn’t mean to. Good-bye. I hope you’ll be happy with the gentleman, I’m sure.”

“I hope so too,” said Noel, and I know he was thinking how much nicer Albert’s uncle was. We turned to go. The lady had been very silent compared with what she was when she pretended to show us Canterbury. But now she seemed to shake off some dreamy silliness, and caught hold of Dora by the shoulder.

“No, dear, no,” she said, “it’s all right, and you must have some tea–we’ll have it on the lawn. John, don’t tease them any more. Albert’s uncle is the gentleman T told you about. And, my dear children, this is my brother that I haven’t seen for three years.”

“Then he’s a long-lost too,” said H. O.

The lady said, “Not now,” and smiled at him. And the rest of us were dumb with confounding emotions. Oswald was particularly dumb. He might have known it was her brother, because in rotten grown-up books if a girl kisses a man in a shrubbery that is not the man you think she’s in love with; it always turns out to be a brother, though generally the disgrace of the family and not a respectable chaplain from Calcutta.