Hildegarde's Harvest

A wave of anger surged over Hildegarde, leaving the very tips of her ears pink as it receded; but the wave of amusement followed it quickly, and the second wave bore a little spray of malice. Should she call to her, and say, "Dearest Blanche, how is your dear mother?" Or she might put on a twang—Hildegarde had an excellent twang at her disposal, and say, "Hello, Blanchey! Haow's yer haalth, and haow's the folks to home?" Oh! it would be fun! And surely the girl deserved it! Such bad form, to say nothing of bad feeling! But here Hildegarde seemed to hear a certain familiar voice saying, "My dear, a debt of rudeness is one that should never be paid!" So she held her tongue, and contented herself with looking hard at Blanche's back, which showed consciousness and discomfort in every line.

So intent was Hildegarde on her cousin's back, that she did not notice that one of the other ladies had turned round, and was gazing at her in perplexity; next moment a shout rang out, in a clear, joyous voice that made every one start.

"Hilda Grahame, in the name of all that is wonderful! My dear, what sky have you dropped from?"

Hildegarde started, and saw a splendid vision advancing towards her with outstretched hand. A girl somewhat older than herself, with the walk and figure of a goddess and the dress of a queen; a face of almost faultless beauty, and large clear eyes through which looked a soul like a child's; she was one of the famous beauties of the day, famous alike for her loveliness, her great fortune, and the pride of her ancient name.

"My dear," she repeated, taking both Hildegarde's hands in hers, "what sky have you dropped from, and what are you doing here?"

"Dear Imperia!" said Hildegarde, calling her by the old familiar school name that came naturally to her lips. "How delightful to see you! I am selling cakes; will you have some? There were some that I made myself, but they are all sold. Here are various others, doubtless inferior, but still good."

"Of course I will have some!" cried Imperia. "Why, this is perfectly delightful! Do you really come here? regularly, I mean, and have all the cakes you want? I never heard of such fun. Give me three dozen of everything, and we'll have a carouse. Here, girls!" she turned and called to the others, who were looking curiously at the two; "come here, and tell me who this is! Shade of Madame Haut-ton, hover over us, and bless this reunion!"

"Hildegarde Grahame! Hilda! Queen Hildegarde!" cried several voices; and Hildegarde was instantly surrounded by the crowd of butterflies, all caressing and questioning, laughing and talking at once. One or two looked puzzled, other one or two sad, as they saw their gay schoolmate of former days standing behind the counter, quiet and self-possessed, and apparently entirely at home. But visible distress was on one countenance, and Hildegarde, charitable, refrained from looking at her cousin, when Imperia exclaimed, "Why, here is Blanche Van Dene! She is your cousin, isn't she? Blanche, here is Hilda, who used to be so good to you at school, and help you with your spelling. Dear me, Hilda, do you remember how Blanchey used to spell?"

Hildegarde shook hands with her cousin composedly, and only her dancing eyes showed any consciousness of the situation. Blanche muttered some greeting, and then recollected an engagement and hurried off. The lady Imperia looked after her with good-natured contempt.

"Same little animal, my dear! I beg your pardon, Hilda, but really, you know, we remember her in her pinafores, and she was a snob then. But now tell us all about it, like a good girl! You are not in trouble, dear old thing?"

At this moment the door opened and Miss Adams came hurrying in, breathless and apologetic. There had been a block in the street—she was on the wrong side and could not get back—would Hildegarde please excuse her for being so long?

"Oh, but I have had a delightful time, Miss Adams!" cried Hildegarde. "And I have sold three dozen of everything—was that a real offer, Imperia?"

Imperia vowed that it was; and Hildegarde and Miss Adams together tied up the parcels, while all chatted together like old friends. The situation was explained, and so many dozens of "Novices" were ordered for every week that Hildegarde declared her intention of taking back with her to Braeside a chef and three kitchen-maids to help her in the manufacture. Finally, she was whirled away in her friend's purple chariot for a drive in the park, and had the pleasure of passing her cousin Blanche on the way, looking sad and sorry.

CHAPTER VI.

MORE GREETINGS.

"And you won't think better of it? Hilda, I am in despair! Think of it, my dear! Calvé, and both the De Reszkes—there will never be such a performance again, perhaps, in our lifetimes! And all the good time we should have between the acts—and our box will be simply full of people all the evening—oh, you must come, Hilda Grahame!"

People said of Helena Desmond that if she had a fault, it was that of speaking too loud. She was so full of the joy of living, so powerful and vigorous in all her emotions, pleasurable or painful, that her clear, resonant voice was apt to be heard like the sound of a trumpet, dominating other and feebler organs. Mrs. Delansing, sitting erect behind her tea equipage, heard it, and shivered slightly; but Hildegarde's reply was spoken so low that she could not catch a syllable. Then came: "No, no, I shouldn't! Don't tell me! I should do nothing of the sort! We are to take our opportunities as they come,—time enough for sacrifices when Lent comes. You know I don't mean that, Hilda; and you know you are a dear, dear,—" here followed the sound of good hearty kisses, and Mrs. Delansing shivered again; then the door closed with a solid slam, and all was silent.

Hildegarde came into the room, her hands full of roses.

"Aunt Emily," she said, "Helena Desmond sent you these! She would have come in, but she was late already for a reception. Aren't they lovely?"

Mrs. Delansing bent her head over the flowers; they were among the few things she enjoyed.

"Beautiful!" she said. "It was very kindly done of Miss Desmond. I should have been glad to see her. Was—was that she at the door, speaking so loud?"

"Yes," said Hildegarde. "She was speaking rather loud, perhaps; but her voice is so musical, I don't think one minds it in her, somehow. She is a glorious creature!"

Mrs. Delansing seemed absent and disturbed. "She—it is not always possible to avoid overhearing portions of conversations, when carried on in a high key—I gathered that some invitation had been extended to you, Hildegarde—for this evening."

"Yes!" said Hildegarde, rather reluctantly. "She wanted me to go to the opera with her, but I didn't think I would better."

"Why not?" demanded her aunt, severely. "Miss Desmond is not accustomed to have her invitations refused,—and you are bound to take advantage of such opportunities as may present themselves to you, living in the extraordinary way that your mother thinks suitable for you."

"Oh, well!" said Hildegarde, "Helena understood perfectly, and I thought it best not to go."

She was arranging the flowers as she spoke, and did not see the curious change that seemed to come over Mrs. Delansing's face. It was as if the stony repose of her features were broken,—some shifting light seemed to pass over her, changing into shadow, but a shadow softened into something approaching tenderness.

"Hildegarde, it is not on my account that you are making this sacrifice? I cannot permit—"

Hildegarde looked up; then laid down her roses, and crossed the room to lay her hand on her aunt's shoulder.

"Of course it is, Aunt Emily!" she said, impulsively. "I came here to see you, not to go to the opera. I have been out already more than I should to-day, but—but things happened, somehow. And this is the last evening we shall have together, and you know we are to play the grand final rubber; and—and I wanted to stay."

The old lady began to tremble in her chair; a mist came over her keen black eyes.

"My grandchildren would have gone!" she cried. "Blanche and Violette would have gone, and not have thought it necessary even to tell me. I have done everything for them, and nothing— Blanche has been here this afternoon!" she added, in a different voice, struggling for her usual composure. "She said—but it is of no consequence what she said."

"No, it really isn't, Aunt Emily!" said Hildegarde, venturing to stroke the silken shoulder affectionately. "Suppose we don't mind about Blanche now; she is very young for her age, don't you think? I can finish that story before I go to dress for dinner."

But Mrs. Delansing had something else to say.

"Thomas Ferrers came to see me, also!" she said. "Did you ask him to do so?"

"Oh—no!" said Hildegarde. "I—I only told him that you did not go out very much, and—and he said at once that he should come to see you before he left town."

"He is grown an old man!" said Mrs. Delansing. "Wild Tom Ferrers! We had a great deal of talk; much of it about you. I am bound to say that he gave me a different impression of your life. You—you must all be very happy there together!"

The tone was piteous in its wistfulness, and Hildegarde responded heartily. "You must come and see for yourself some day, Aunt Emily! We are happy, as happy as the day is long!"

The evening passed quickly and pleasantly. Mrs. Delansing unbent more than Hildegarde could have supposed possible, and even smiled as she told, over the backgammon board, some anecdotes of Colonel Ferrers's wild youth. One could not imagine her laughing under any circumstances, but her smile, when she was amused, was fine and delicate, and made a wonderful difference in her face.

When bedtime came, she held Hildegarde's hands in hers for several minutes, looking at her with a searching gaze.

"You have not found it too dull?" she said. "Hobson says she heard you singing in your room to-day! You do not find this a dreary cage, where no young life could be happy?"

Hildegarde had found it so the first day, but now all was changed, and she could answer heartily, "No, indeed, Aunt Emily! I have had a very pleasant visit, and I am—oh, so glad I came! I don't believe I should ever have known you if I had not been here in the house; and I am very, very glad to know you, Aunt Emily. May I come again?" She bent, and kissed the old lady's cheek, and was delighted to have her kiss warmly returned.

"Come whenever you will, my child!" Mrs. Delansing said. "Come as often as you can; I shall be better for every time I see you."

So it was arranged that later in the winter Hildegarde was to come to Gramercy Park for a good visit, and hear the German opera; and when the aunt and niece finally said good-bye at the bedroom door, Hildegarde felt that she had made a new friend; while the lonely old woman went to bed with a warmer heart than she had felt in her bosom for years.

"Why, mum," said Hobson, "I declare to goodness, you look ten years younger since that young lady come here!"

"I am ten years younger, Hobson!" said Mrs. Delansing, gravely. "I will have the nightcap with the Valenciennes frill, if you please."

Hildegarde sent her little trunk off by the expressman, and after bidding good-bye to Hobson, who begged her most earnestly to come again soon, started off for her final shopping-bout. She had some idea of lunching at Purcell's, and taking an afternoon train for home. There were still several things to be attended to, and she might—it was not very far from Blank & Blank's—she might be able to run round and see if Rose Flower were at home. It was doubtful, for she had been away most of the fall, but there was always a chance of her having returned. The dear Rose! How good it would be to see her, and Doctor Flower, and, perhaps, Bubble!

It was eleven o'clock before she reached Blank & Blank's, and the vast shop was filled with a surging crowd of women, young and old, smart and dowdy, rich and poor. Here and there a lone man was seen, standing bewildered, with a sample in his hand of something that he was to match; here and there, too, stood the floor-walkers, in calm and conscious dignity, the heroes of the shopping-world; but these were only occasional flecks on the frothing tide of womanhood. Hildegarde, after several vain attempts, succeeded in reaching the counter she sought. Before it stood a row of women, elbow to elbow, each bent on her own quest; behind it were the shop-women, endeavouring to satisfy all demands at one and the same moment.

Endeavouring, most of them, that is; but even the shop-woman, tried as she is in the furnace, is not always pure gold. The young woman who stood near Hildegarde may have been too tired, or may have been ill; she certainly was rude. Hildegarde had taken her stand directly behind a plainly dressed, elderly woman, shrewdly judging that she would be likely to make some definite purchase and then depart, instead of fingering half the goods on the counter, as many of the customers were doing. The elderly woman was evidently in haste. She held up the black cashmere that she had been examining, and said, civilly, "Will you please tell me the price of this?" The question was repeated several times; the shop-woman, after one glance at the quiet, unstylish figure, turned her shoulder, and began to press some goods volubly on a departing shopper.

"Please!" said the quiet woman again. "I am in haste, and want to buy some of this. Will you please tell me the price?"

"You'll have to wait your turn, lady!" was the reply; and voice and tone were equally ill-bred. "I can't wait on everybody at once."

"I have been waiting fifteen minutes," was the reply; "and my turn has come over and over again."

That was enough for Hildegarde. She reached over the woman's shoulder, and rapped sharply on the counter. "Will you tell the lady the price of this cashmere, or shall I call Mr. Jones?"

The shop-woman looked up hastily, caught sight of two blazing eyes, and a face like white lightning, and quailed.

"I—I'm sure I was doing my best!" she muttered. "It's sixty cents a yard."

"If this is your best, you have no place here!" said the flashing person before her. "How many yards would you like, madam? You shall—oh! oh, my dear! Oh, Nurse Lucy, it is not really you?"

"Oh, my blessed lamb!" cried Nurse Lucy, "Am I awake or dreaming, I says to myself the minute I heard your darling voice!"

And the stately maiden in blue serge, and the gray-haired woman in black alpaca, fell on each other's neck, and fairly cried for joy, while the roar of the shopping actually ceased—for one moment. Then it rose again,—what did it matter to anybody, when a bargain sale was on, who met or who parted? And the two friends, holding each other fast by the hand, got into a quiet corner apart, in a haven dedicated to Marseilles quilts, which nobody was buying, and sat down on two stools, and gazed their fill.

"I wonder what is the meaning of it all!" cried Hildegarde. "One after another, I keep meeting all the people I care most about; first one friend, and then another,—and now you, you dear, blessed Nurse Lucy. Oh! what are you doing here? and where is Mr. Hartley? and—and—have you seen Rose and Bubble? I was wondering whether I could find them. And—oh, do tell me all about everything, please!"

She paused, breathless, and Nurse Lucy took up the tale, drying her joyful tears the while.

"My pretty! to think of it being you! and me thinking of you miles away, and wishing I could run down and see you and your blessed mother, as you've asked me a many times so kind. And Jacob,—why, he's right outside, dear, waiting for me. He can't abear a crowd of people, you know, and New York almost smothers him anyway, poor soul. We came up for the day, dear, to see Pinkrosia, and Bubble, and the Doctor. We had a note from Doctor Flower—ah! what a good man he is!—and he wouldn't take no for an answer, but we must come up and see them in their own home; and so here we are,—came up on the early train this morning, as Jacob had business in the city. And now!—and my dear looking so well and so beautiful, and the living spirit of her mother—"

"Oh, hush, Nurse Lucy! you must not flatter me!" cried Hildegarde. "See! there is your parcel all done up! I will take it for you; and I don't think that young woman will neglect a customer again for one while."

Arm in arm, they passed through the crowd. As they reached the street, Mrs. Hartley pressed Hildegarde's arm. "Hush, dear! stop a minute! there's Jacob; waiting so patient, poor soul! To think how surprised he will be! What shall we say to him?"

"I know!" said Hildegarde. "Let me tell him, Nurse Lucy!"

A tall, stalwart man was standing with his back to them; his legs were rather wide apart, his shoulders squared, and he seemed to have planted himself against the throng of people that hurried and jostled by him. Discontent was visible in every line of his figure, and Hildegarde knew just how his mouth was puckered, though she could not see it.

Hildegarde stepped up softly behind him, and spoke in his ear.

"And what do you expect to get for winter wheat, Mr. Hartley?"

The farmer turned round as if he had been shot. "What in—now take me away! take me away home, before I lose any senses this place has left me. This ain't Huldy Grahame, no way of the world!"

Convinced that it was that young person herself, he seized her two hands, and drew her forcibly along, as he made his way through the crowd. "Lucy found ye?" he said. "I bet Lucy found ye. Nothin' like women! I've been thinkin' about ye all this blessed day, and looked at every gal that went by, and they was about ten thousand of 'em, and not one I'd look at twice. Come along, Lucy! I've done all the shoppin' I want! Let's get home to Doctor Flower's, and have a sight at this gal, before I wake up and find she's a dream!"

As the good man spoke, he hurried Hildegarde along at a surprising rate, Nurse Lucy following as best she might. Hildegarde was fairly bewildered by all these sudden meetings. She began to feel as if every street corner must reveal some new vision; she looked for Bubble,—for the Merryweathers; it seemed to her, too, almost dreamlike in its strangeness. Yet after all, there is nothing wonderful in meeting all sorts and conditions of men in the course of two days in New York.

A short walk brought them to a quiet, pleasant street, where the usual brown stone houses had rather a special look of care and neatness. There were many flowers in the windows; the curtains were more often muslin than lace, but they were fresh and white, and one felt that it was a pleasant neighbourhood, a neighbourhood of homes.

"You have been here before, dear?" asked Mrs. Hartley.

"No," replied Hildegarde. "I have been meaning all the fall to come, ever since they came back from Europe and took this house, but one thing and another has prevented. As I told you, I meant to try to see them to-day, in any case. But Rose does not know I am in town; it will be another surprise. Dear Rose!"

"Well, I do suppose Pinkrosia'll be glad to see you!" said Jacob Hartley. "But if she sets up to be as glad as Marm Lucy and I be, she'll have to hear something, that's all. Huldy Grahame's my gal this time, and no mistake!"

Hildegarde wondered what the Colonel would say to this; wondered also if there were any one else—but the thought dismissed itself unfinished.

Here they were now, in a pretty, homelike parlour, hung with rose-colour,—ah! Doctor Fowler always had the prettiest ideas!—waiting for their hostess. A light step on the stairs! As it came down, quickly and steadily, Hildegarde saw many pictures, all in a moment. First, a girl in a wheeled chair, pale and sweet-faced, saying quietly that she could not walk,—that she had not walked since she was three years old,—pointing out the beauty and convenience of her precious chair, in which she was a prisoner. Then, herself, Hildegarde Grahame, walking up and down the anteroom of the hospital, waiting in an agony of suspense for news; then her mother's face, and Doctor Flower behind her, both smiling, and the blessed words, "It is all right!"

The tears sprang to her eyes. Then came the vision of their two selves, herself and her friend, in their happy, happy holiday summer at Cousin Wealthy Bond's; the gradual recovery, the roses coming in the pale cheeks, the step, growing ever firmer, more elastic. Then—but there was time for no more. Here she was at the door, Rose Flower, no longer a cripple, no longer even an invalid, but the happy wife of one of the best men in the world.

Rose's cry of surprise was very different from the clarion shout with which Helena Desmond had greeted her friend. It was soft and low,—a note like that of a bird coming home to its nest. "Hilda! my Hilda! oh, happy, happy day!"

The two girls (for Rose was a girl still, if she was a married woman!) held each other close for a little, without a word; the words did not come, nor was there need of them; each knew the other's heart was full of love that had had steady life and growth for five years. "My dear!" they said; and then again, "My dear!" and that was all.

But a few minutes later, when all four were seated in a circle, the girls hand in hand, the old people looking from one to the other with eyes of delight, the words came fast enough.

Rose had to tell of her summer abroad, of all the new worlds that had opened before the country-bred girl,—worlds of which she had dreamed all her life, which she had never thought to see with her bodily eyes. Then Hildegarde must tell of her summer, all the wonders of the camp, the new friends, grown so dear in so short a time; of Hugh and the Colonel, and all the delights of Braeside and Roseholme; and then both girls must hear all about affairs at Hartley's Glen, from the greatest to the least.

"Oh, Nurse Lucy, is the old yellow hen still alive—Mrs. Whittaker, I mean? Surely you know the hen we always called Mrs. Whittaker. She used to tell us her name whenever she laid an egg. And the cats! How are the dear cats? Do you think Camaralzaman remembers me, Nurse Lucy? And do you try to say his whole name once in a while, so that he will not forget it? And how are all the people in the village? How is Miss Bean? Does she still trim hats?— Oh, Rose, do you remember the funny hats? There was a green satin one, the first time I went there—my dear! she wanted me to buy it! But she was so good, and kind, and nice! Everybody in the village is nice!"

"Hilda, do you remember when Bubble sprained his ankle, and the letter he wrote you? Oh, such a funny letter, wasn't it?"

"Remember it? I have it in one of my most precious portfolios! But, oh, Nurse Lucy, you haven't told us a word about the cows. Dear cows! How are they all?"

And so on, and so on, happy, foolish talk, with laughter breaking through it at every moment, as one recollection brought up another. And in the midst of it all, who is this tall youth who comes silently into the hall, and stands silent in the doorway, gazing at all the merry talkers? No one sees him; he stands and looks from one to the other, with shining eyes. A slight, trim figure, well-dressed, alert, quickness and energy in every line of it; a face not handsome, certainly, but so full of life and intelligence and good-will that whoever looks at it once is sure to look again. There he stands, silent, absorbed; and so standing, he, too, sees visions. A garden, and a boy at work in it; a freckled, towsled boy, fighting weeds with a hoe, but keeping one eye on a tattered spelling-book that lies beside him. Ten weeds to a word, that was the rule; big weeds, of course,—he did not count chickweed. What was the word,—ah! yes! anticipate! That was it! And then he looked up, and saw the face looking through the hedge,—the beautiful face, with the proud, pretty mouth, and the bright eyes. It had hardly changed, save that the mouth was now gentle, instead of proud. And then she came forward, and talked to him,—to him, in his old shirt and trousers, and asked about his lessons, and offered to teach him. Ah, yes! that was the beginning of it all, the new life, the new world, the new joy!

There was a suspicion of moisture in the youth's bright blue eyes, but they twinkled nevertheless; and when he spoke, it was in the old, homely speech that he loved, and in the very words that he had spoken that day, all these happy years ago.

"I swan!" said Zerubbabel Chirk. "I reelly do! I swan to man!"

CHAPTER VII.

MERRY WEATHER SIGNS.

But the best of all, perhaps, was telling about it afterward. Sitting by the fire that evening, in the pleasant sitting-room, Hildegarde told her mother all about the Great Frisk, as she called it; and it would have been hard to say whether narrator or listener were the more interested.

"But, child," said Mrs. Grahame, "how was it possible for you to do so much, and see so many people in three days, or, rather, two days and a half? I cannot comprehend it!"

"Nor can I!" laughed Hildegarde. "But—it just happened, you know! Why, dear, it seemed to rain friends! Wherever I turned I ran into some one I loved. Oh, I feel so rich,—rich in every way! The money in my pocket is the least part of it all, and yet I am glad enough of that, too. Only think of my getting such a price! And eight or ten dozen to send every week! It is like a fairy story, isn't it, darling? And then to meet Helena,—dear Helena! Oh, she was so delightful! And just to see her was enough to fill one with beauty for the whole day. She wears her hair brushed back now,—you remember how it waves,—wonderful hair! And she was in dark blue velvet, trimmed with chinchilla, and—and altogether, my love, if the Queen of Sheba had seen her, her spirit would have died within her twice over. And just the same dear, whole-souled creature as ever! She never can change. She promises to come out here before she goes to Washington."

"That will be delightful!" said Mrs. Grahame. "I shall be very glad to see Helena again; I have always hoped that when she came back you would see something of her again. She was the one of your schoolmates that my heart always warmed to. How came Mrs. Desmond to be willing to leave Paris? When she went away, she said it was for life."

"Oh, Helena would come!" said Hildegarde. "She told me about it; they must have had a scene. She said to her mother, 'Mamma, I am an American! I have never committed any crime, and I refuse to be exiled from my native country any longer. If you will come with me, it will be much the pleasantest thing; if not, I go alone.' Well, it was not the thing to say, of course, but—"

"I am not sure about that!" said Mrs. Grahame, flushing slightly. "I am inclined to think Helena was perfectly justified. When a woman has not sense enough to guide her daughter, she must submit to be guided. The idea of keeping that girl over there five years, frittering about the continent; preposterous! My sympathy is entirely with Helena."

Mrs. Grahame sat very erect, and her eyes were very bright; then, catching Hildegarde's eyes, full of laughter, she relaxed her muscles, and began to laugh too.

"I am sorry, dear," she said. "I never could like Mrs. Desmond."

"I should think not!" said Hildegarde, promptly. "I should be under the painful necessity of disowning you if you did. But you love Mrs. Honiton, Mammina!"

"Ah, Mrs. Honiton! how could two sisters be so different? It is Margaret Honiton who should be Helena's mother,—they are wonderfully alike."

"Yes. Helena feels that. She is lovely with her mother,—firm, but devoted,—but Aunt Margaret is the one of the world to her. It is a terrible thing for a girl to have an incompetent mother!"

"Yes, darling, it is indeed," said Mrs. Grahame, meekly. "I feel it so in your case. No, don't kill me, Hildegarde! my time is not yet come. Tell me more about Rose and her husband. She is very happy, you say?"

"Happy as the day is long. I told you I did not see Doctor Flower,—the only one I missed, really; he was in Philadelphia. But their house is as pretty as pretty; it is evident that he furnished it,—you know what taste he has; and everywhere roses, roses! carved and painted and embroidered,—it is really the Rose-bower, as he calls it. Her own little sitting-room, up-stairs—oh, such a little rosy-posy nest! rosewood desk,—and everything soft covered with rose-flowered chintz—curtains, too,—and the most de-lightful sofa I ever did see! And her little work-table, and—oh, well, Mammina, I think, after all, that made me happier than anything,—unless it was the sight of Nurse Lucy's face when she recognised me! But, remembering all that Rose suffered, and all the cramped, anxious days and years, and then seeing her, a rose in full bloom, in her own pretty house, with such signs of loving care all about her,—it was good, good!"

"Yes, indeed!" said Mrs. Grahame, heartily. "I am sure that was a real treat, darling. And Bubble—you say he is grown such a fine lad!"

"Bubble is enchanting! not handsome—well, but you need not laugh, Mammina, for he is very good looking, and certainly has an air of distinction. He holds his head so well; and he walks well, and, altogether—oh, I am proud of Bubble. And Rose says that Doctor Flower is sure the boy has a career before him; he never had so apt a pupil. And he speaks such beautiful English, Rose says."

"Rose says!" repeated Mrs. Grahame. "I thought you had a good little talk with the boy himself."

"Oh, so I had, but he would not talk anything but the broadest Yankee. He insisted that he was precisely the same freckled boy that he was when I first saw him; and he carried on in the most absurd way. He was almost like Gerald; dear Gerald! I didn't see any of the Merryweathers, Mamma; so there was something lacking, after all."

"It would be a weary world if there were not," said her mother. "But speaking of the Merryweathers—have you noticed, Hilda dear, whether the night is clear?"

"Whether the night is clear, Mammina? No, I did not look. What do you mean, darling? Shall I go to the door—"

"No; not to the door," said Mrs. Grahame. "Go to the window, child; the west window, that looks across the hedge. Tell me if the stars are out."

Wondering greatly at this sudden solicitude about the weather, Hildegarde crossed the room and drew the curtain.

"Clear as a bell," she said. "Stars all out, and wind,—oh, oh, Mammina! Why, there are lights in the windows of Pumpkin House! Mamma, they have come!"

She turned upon her mother with eyes alight with happy inquiry.

"They have come," Mrs. Grahame repeated. "Some of them, that is. Oh, things can happen here as well as in New York, mademoiselle! They came yesterday,—Mrs. Merryweather and Kitty and—"

"And you never told me!" cried Hildegarde. "And you have let me talk on and on for three,—four hours,—oh, Mrs. Grahame!"

"You never asked me," replied that lady, demurely. "You had a great deal to tell, and I wanted very much to hear it; perhaps, too, I did not want to have your mind distracted until I had had my turn. Mrs. Merryweather is looking very well."

"Oh, the dear!" cried Hildegarde. "Oh, Mammina, do you think I might go over? Do you think it is too late? It is only half-past eight. Don't you think I might run over now?"

"Hark!" said Mrs. Grahame, raising her hand. "What is that?"

Hildegarde, in full tide of excitement, checked herself, and listened. Under the window some unseen hand swept the strings of a guitar, lightly, yet firmly; and next moment a voice broke out, singing the old air of "Gentle Zitella."

Hildegarde threw up the sash.

"Come in, Gerald!" she cried. "Oh, you dear boy, I am so glad to see you—hear you, rather! come in, quick!"

She shut the window hastily.

"Did you feel the air, Mamma? I thought if I opened it just for a second,—the room seemed pretty warm. Sure you are not cold, love?"

Mrs. Grahame was quite positive; but Hildegarde must feel her hands to make assurance doubly sure; must tuck a shawl round her mother's shoulders, and throw an encouraging glance towards the fire, before she turned to the door, which now opened to admit Mr. Gerald Merryweather.

"You dear boy!" she repeated, going to meet him with outstretched hand. "To think that you have been here two days without my seeing you. Gerald, how you have grown!"

"'Great weeds do grow apace,'" said the tall lad, looking down on her. "I forestall the remark, you observe. It is the one with which I am commonly greeted by my affectionate family. But it's awfully good to see you, Hilda. I say, how well you're looking!"

"You, too," said Hilda. "And they are all well? and all here, or coming? Oh, sit down and tell me all about everything, do!"

"I have already told her, Gerald," said Mrs. Grahame; "but I don't think she paid much attention; you may as well tell her over again."

"Well, I was so excited, you see!" cried the girl. "I have been having the most wonderful time in town; and then to come out here and find you,—my cup is rather brimming over, that's all. Now tell, Jerry."

"We came," said Gerald, curling up his long legs on the hearth-rug; "we have seen—several things; we expect to conquer—shortly—the dust, and to get the house to rights. Our holidays—Ferguson's and mine—began on Saturday, so the Mater thought we'd better come right down and get things ready for the others. Then she reflected that she could not trust us; so she decided to come herself; then she further reflected that she could not possibly leave the kids alone with the Pater, so she brought them along. Behold us! Bell and Toots arrive next week, and the Codger at some time known to himself. He is in Arizona, or somewhere this side of it,—sent for to inspect a mine, and see whether it is a good place for planting cabbages."

"Gerald!" said Hildegarde.

"Honoured miss!" replied the boy. "I may not be quite accurate in the details, but there is a mine, I do assure you."

"And what kind of winter have you all had? You have been in Boston all the time,—that is, your mother and father?"

"In Boston, yes. The winter has been such as might have been expected, far from the sun which etcetera. Barring the fact that we have all existed in a state of acute anguish at being separated from you, we have all been exceedingly well, thank you."

"And how do you and Phil like college? Is it as much fun as you thought it would be? Do you like your rooms? Are you doing all right in your Greek?"

"Hilda," put in Mrs. Grahame, "do let the boy draw breath, and allow yourself to do so. Two such panting young creatures I have seldom seen. And Gerald is not going away on the night train."

"I suppose not!" said Hildegarde. "But, oh, it does seem so long since I have heard anything about him and Phil. Bell, you see, writes the most enchanting letters, but they are mostly about college and music,—her college, I mean; and she tucks in a little postscript to say that all are well at home, and that is all the news I get."

"Which accounts for your pallid and emaciated appearance!" said Gerald.

"I don't remember any more. I learned that in the Finden book, when I was six years old."

"Why, Gerald, did you have the Finden books, too? How delightful! Dear, ridiculous books! We have them now. I still think the 'Diamond' lady the most beautiful creature that ever lived,—and simpered. But you are not telling me a word about college!"

"I have had so much opportunity, you observe!" said Gerald, appealing to Mrs. Grahame. "My natural diffidence has been allowed such free play by the silent and unconversational attitude of your daughter—"

Mrs. Grahame shook her head, and declared that there was a pair of them, and she would have nothing to say on either side.

Finally, however, boy and girl settled down into an amicable and more or less coherent exchange of information. It appeared that the boys were doing well in college, enjoying the new life to the full, and keeping well in their classes.

"Of course we started in with about three times as much sail as we could carry. I had five courses, and Ferguson seven. But some of them were half ones, and after the first term we began to see where we were a bit,—and to perceive that Roger and Pater were right. We couldn't see it at first, of course, being such as we are."

"And such as boys have been since the beginning of colleges!" said Mrs. Grahame.

"Dear madam, how well you know! Well, Greek has been pretty stiff, but still we peg away, and like it no end. Then we both have Chem. 2,—that's great sport! I blew myself up—"

"Gerald!"

"Fact, I assure you! Pounding something in a mortar—nice little glass mortar, you know,—pounding away, having fine sport; suddenly I pounded a little too hard,—old Comprehensive told us we must not pound hard,—and away went the mortar, and away went I. My eyebrows are only just growing out; and you never noticed!" And the boy looked deeply injured.

"My dear boy! What a narrow escape! Oh, your mother must have had a fright!"

"Rather!" said Gerald. "Roger, you know, had that bad time ten years ago, and she thought I had done something of that sort, and would have to live on dark room and excruciating tortures for months. But I got my eyes shut all right, you see; so it only burned my hyacinthine locks a bit, and took off my eyebrows, and spoiled a good suit of clothes. But I learned something, and now I pound the way old Comp tells me to."

"What is the professor's name?" inquired Hildegarde.

"Comprehensive? Oh, well, his real name is Worcester, you know. Of course no one could stand that, and he is so short that it would never do to call him 'Unabridged,' so I suggested 'Comprehensive,' which is the size you have in school, you know; and the fellows took to it, and now he is called that altogether, or 'Comp' for short."

"I see! By the way, what are you and Phil called? Anything except your own names, I suppose!"

"Pretty much!" Gerald admitted. "Phil is called the 'Holy Poker'—don't know why, I'm sure!—and 'Thumbling,'—he has grown about nine feet, Phil has; really, he is a whole head taller than I am!"

"Dear me!" said Hildegarde, innocently. "I had no idea your head was so big as that, Gerald! of course I knew it was rather—"

"Mrs. Grahame!" cried Gerald, in a tone of anguish. "Will you speak to her, please? She is trampling all over my delicate sensibilities, and talking slang besides!"

"Hildegarde," said Mrs. Grahame, "I am surprised at you!"

"Yes, dear madam!" said Hildegarde, meekly. "You didn't hear the things he said. Go on with the names, Gerald!"

"They call him 'Bottle-washer,' too, and 'Cappadocia.' I think that is rather the favourite name for Ferguson."

"Why 'Cappadocia?'" asked Hildegarde.

"Oh, well, there isn't really much reason,—but then, it doesn't take much. They call me 'Capsicum,' you see, and we are twins, and 'Cappadocia' begins,—surely I need explain no further even to a person of limited intelligence?"

"Go on, Master Impudence! Do they call you 'Cayenne,' too?"

"Yes, indeed! And 'Bricks,' and 'Mortar,' and 'Flag,'—short for 'Conflagration,'—and everything of that sort. I don't care; I don't mind any of these; but when they call me 'Hamlet,' I knock them down."

"Dear Jerry! Why do they call you 'Hamlet?'"

"Oh! just some idiot started it,—you can't tell how these things start. One comfort is,—I called him the 'Grave-digger,' and it will stick to him through college, for he looks it to the life. And the joke of it,—I don't know whether it's safe to tell you the joke of it, Hilda."

"Try and see!"

"Well, the real joke of it is that his father is an undertaker, and I never knew it.

"But I haven't finished about the courses!" he added, hastily, seeing Hilda look serious. "I am taking French, and Ferguson German. We have delightful conversations every evening, I speaking my language, and he his. You shall have a specimen when you see us togeth—Hullo! What's that?"

Mrs. Grahame uttered a slight cry, and rose hastily to her feet.

"I—I don't know," she said. "I thought—I surely did see a face looking in at the window. Hark!"

They listened, and heard a rustling in the great linden-tree outside. Then something gleamed white at the window,—a face, beyond all doubt.

"Ferguson!" said Gerald. "If I don't give it to him for startling you, Mrs. Grahame; he shall be flayed, I assure you! Set your mind at rest on that point! Flayed an inch at a time!"

"May I come in?" asked Phil's voice, as he swayed back and forth on the linden branch.