Hildegarde's Home

"Where art thou, tub of my heart?" cried the girl; and she dived under the bed, and pulled out the third reason for her choosing this room. Her mother, she knew, would not change for anything the comfortable "sitz," the friend of many years; so Hildegarde felt at full liberty to enjoy this great white porcelain tub, shallow, three feet across, with red and blue fishes swimming all over it. She did not know that Captain Robert Aytoun had brought it in the hold of his ship all the way from Singapore, for his little Hester, but she did know that it was the most delightful tub she had ever dreamed of; and as she splashed the crystal water about, she almost ceased, for the first time, to regret the blue river which had been her daily bathing-place the summer before. Very fresh and sweet she looked, when at last the long locks were braided in one great smooth braid, and the pretty grey gingham put on and smoothed down. She nodded cheerfully to her image in the glass. It was, as dear Cousin Wealthy said, a privilege to be good-looking, and Hildegarde was simply and honestly glad of her beauty.

"Now," she said, when the room was "picked up," and everything aërable hung up to air, "the question is, Go out first and arrange the Penates after breakfast, or arrange the Penates now and go out later?" One more glance from the window decided the matter. "They must wait, poor dears! After all, it is more respectful to take them out when the room is made up than when it is having its sheet and pillow-case party, like this."

She went down her own staircase with a proud sense of possession, and opening the door at its foot, found herself in a little covered porch, from which a flagged walk led toward the back of the house. Here was a pleasant sort of yard, partly covered with broad flags, with a grassy space beyond. Here were clothes-lines, well, and woodshed; and here was auntie, standing at her kitchen door, and looking well satisfied with her new quarters.

"What a pleasant yard, auntie!" said Hildegarde. "This is your own domain, isn't it?"

"Reckon 'tis!" replied the good woman, smiling. "Jes' suits me, dis does. I kin have some chickens here, and do my washin' out-doors, and spread out some, 'stead o' bein' cooped up like a old hen myself."

A high wall surrounded auntie's domain, and Hildegarde looked round it wonderingly.

"Oh! there is a door," she said. "I thought mamma said there was a garden. That must be it, beyond there. Call me when breakfast is ready, please, auntie." Passing through the door, she closed it after her, and entered—another world. A dim, green world, wholly different from the golden, sunny one she had just left; a damp world, where the dew lay heavy on shrubs and borders, and dripped like rain from the long, pendent branches of the trees. The paths were damp, and covered with fine green moss. Great hedges of box grew on either side, untrimmed, rising as high as the girl's head; and as she walked between them their cool glossy leaves brushed against her cheek. Here and there was a neglected flower-bed, where a few pallid rosebuds looked sadly out, and pinks flung themselves headlong over the border, as if trying to reach the sunlight; but for the most part the box and the great elms and locusts had it their own way. Hildegarde had never seen such locust-trees! They were as tall as the elms, their trunks scarred and rough with the frosts of many winters. No birds sang in their green, whispering depths; the silence of the place was heavy, weighted down with memories of vanished things.

"I have no right to come here!" said Hildegarde to herself. "I am sure they would not like it." Something white glimmered between the bending boughs of box which interlaced across her path. She half expected to see a shadowy form confront her and wave her back; but, pushing on, she saw a neglected summer-house, entirely covered with the wild clematis called virgin's-bower. She peeped in, but did not venture across the threshold, because it looked as if there might be spiders in it. Through the opposite door, however, she caught a glimpse of a very different prospect, a flash of yellow sunlight, a sunny meadow stretching up and away. Skirting the summer-house carefully, she came upon a stone wall, the boundary of the garden, beyond which the broad meadow lay full in the sunlight. Sitting on this wall, Hildegarde felt as if half of her were in one world, and half in the other; for the dark box and the drooping elm-branches came to the very edge of the wall, while all beyond was rioting in morning and sunshine.

At this moment a faint sound fell on her ear, a far-away voice, which belonged wholly to the golden world, and had nothing whatever to do with the green. "Hi-ya! Miss Hildy chile!" the mellow African voice came floating down through the trees with an imperious summons; and Hildegarde jumped down from her stone perch, and came out of her dream, and went in to breakfast.

"And what is to be done, Mammina?" asked Hildegarde, when the "eggs and the ham and the strawberry jam" were things of the past, and they were out on the piazza again. "Do you realise, by the way, that we shall live chiefly on this piazza?"

"It is certainly a most delightful place," said Mrs. Grahame. "And I do realise that while it would be quite out of the question to change anything in Miss Barbara's sacred parlour, it is not exactly the place to be cosy in. But, dear child, I shall have to be in my own room a good deal, as this arranging of your dear father's papers will be my chief work through the summer, probably."

"Oh, of course! and I shall be in my room a good deal, for there is sewing, and all that German I am going to read, and—oh, and quantities of things to do! But still we shall live here a great deal, I am sure. It is just a great pleasant room, with one side of it taken off. And it is very quiet, with the strip of lawn, and the ledge beyond. One cannot see the road, except just a bit through the gate. Sometimes you can bring your writing down here, and I can grub in the flower-bed and disturb you."

"Thank you!" said her mother, laughing. "The prospect is singularly attractive. But, dear, you asked me a few minutes ago what was to be done. I thought it would be pleasant if we took out our various little belongings, and disposed them here and there."

"Just what I was longing to do!" cried Hildegarde. "All my precious alicumtweezles are crying out from the trunk, and waiting for me. But don't you want me to see the butcher for you, love, or let auntie tell me what she is going to make for dessert, or perform any other sacred after-breakfast rites?"

Mrs. Grahame shook her head, smiling, and Hildegarde flew upstairs, like an arrow shot from a bow.

In her room stood a huge trunk, already unlocked and unstrapped, and a box whose aspect said plainly that it contained books. All the dresses had been taken out the day before and hung in the roomy closet, pretty, simple gowns, mostly white or grey, for the dear father had disliked "mourning" extremely. Now Hildegarde took out her hats, the broad-brimmed straw with the white daisy wreath, the pretty white shirred mull for best, the black "rough and ready" sailor for common wear. These were laid carefully on a shelf in the closet, and covered with a light cloth to keep them from dust. This done as a matter of duty, the pleasant part began. One after another, a most astonishing array of things were taken from the trunk and laid on the bed, which spread a broad white surface to receive them: a trinket-box of ebony and silver; a plaster cast of the Venus of Milo, another of the Pompeian Psyche, both "treated" in some way that gave them the smooth lustre of old ivory; a hideous little Indian idol, carved out of dark wood, with eyes of real carbuncle; a doll's tea-set of exquisite blue and white china, brought to Hildegarde from Pekin by a wandering uncle, when she was eight years old; a stuffed hawk, confidently asserted by its owner to be the original "jolly gosshawk" of the Scottish ballad, which could "speak and flee"; a Swiss cuckoo clock; several great pink-lipped shells; a butterfly net; a rattlesnake's skin; an exquisite statuette of carved wood, representing Theodoric, King of the Ostrogoths, a copy of the famous bronze statue at Innsbruck; a large assortment of pasteboard boxes, of all sizes and shapes; three or four work-baskets; last of all, some framed photographs and engravings, and a number of polished pieces of wood, which were speedily put together into a bookcase and two or three hanging shelves. On these shelves and on the mantel-piece the various alicumtweezles were arranged and re-arranged, till at length Hildegarde gave a satisfied nod and pronounced them perfect. "But now comes the hard part!" she said. "The pictures! Who shall have the post of honour over the mantel-piece? Come here, dear persons, and let me look at you!" She took up two engravings, both framed in gilt laurel leaves, and studied them attentively. One was the portrait of a man in cavalier dress, strikingly handsome, with dark, piercing eyes and long, curling hair. The expression of the face was melancholy, almost sombre; yet there was a strange fascination in its stern gaze. On the margin was written,—

And now the question was, Which hero was to have the chief place?

"You are the great one, of course, my saint!" said Hildegarde, gazing into the calm eyes of the majestic Dutchman, "and we all know it. But you see, he is an ancestor, and so many people hate him, poor dear!"

She looked from one to the other, till the fixed gaze of the pictured eyes grew really uncomfortable, and she fancied that she saw a look of impatience in those of the Scottish chieftain. Then she looked again at the space above the mantel-piece, and, after measuring it carefully with her eyes, came to a new resolution.

"You see," she said, taking up a third picture, a beautiful photograph of the Sistine Madonna, "I put her in the middle, and you on each side, and then neither of you can say a word."

This arrangement gave great satisfaction; and the other pictures, the Correggio cherubs, Kaulbach's "Lili," the Raphael "violin-player," and "St. Cecilia," were easily disposed of on the various panels, while over the dressing-table, where she could see it from her bed, was a fine print of Murillo's lovely "Guardian Angel."

Hildegarde drew a long breath of satisfaction as she looked round on her favourites in their new home. "So dear they are!" she said fondly. "I wish Hester could see them. Don't you suppose she had any pictures? There are no marks of any on the wall. Well, and now for the books!"

Hammer and screwdriver were brought, and soon the box was opened and the books in their places. Would any girls like to know what Hildegarde's books are? Let us take a glance at them, as they stand in neat rows on the plain, smooth shelves. Those big volumes on the lowest shelf are Scudder's "Butterflies," a highly valued work, full of coloured plates, over which Hildegarde sighs with longing rapture; for, from collecting moths and butterflies for her friend, Bubble Chirk, she has become an ardent collector herself, and in one of the unopened cases downstairs is an oak cabinet with glass-covered drawers, very precious, containing several hundred "specimens."

Here is "Robin Hood," and Gray's Botany, and Percy's "Reliques," and a set of George Eliot, and one of Charles Kingsley, and the "Ingoldsby Legends," and Aytoun's "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," which looks as if it had been read almost to pieces, as indeed it has. (There is a mark laid in at the "Burial March of Dundee," which Hildegarde is learning by heart. This young woman has a habit of keeping a book of poetry open on her dressing-table when she is doing her hair, and learning verses while she brushes out her long locks. It is a pleasant habit, though it does not tend to accelerate the toilet.)

On the next shelf is "Cranford," also well thumbed, and everything that Mrs. Ewing ever wrote, and "Betty Leicester," and Miss Yonge's historical stories, and the "Tales of a Grandfather," and "Lorna Doone," and the dear old "Days of Bruce," and "Scottish Chiefs," side by side with the "Last of the Barons," and the "Queens of England," and the beloved Homer, in Derby's noble translation, also in brown leather. Here, too, is "Sesame and Lilies," and Carlyle on Hero-Worship.

The upper shelf is entirely devoted to poetry, and here are Longfellow and Tennyson, of course, and Milton (not "of course"), and Scott (in tatters, worse off than Aytoun), and Shelley and Keats, and the Jacobite Ballads, and Allingham's Ballad Book, and Mrs. Browning, and "Sir Launfal," and the "Golden Treasury," and "Children's Garland." There is no room for the handy volume Shakespeare, so he and his box must live on top of the bookcase, with his own bust on one side and Beethoven's on the other. These are flanked in turn by photographs of Sir Walter, with Maida at his feet, and Edwin Booth as Hamlet, both in those pretty glass frames which are almost as good as no frame at all.

"And if you are not a pleasant sight," said Hildegarde, falling back to survey her work, and addressing the collection comprehensively, "then I never saw one, that's all. Isn't it nice, dear persons?" she continued, turning to the portraits, which from their places over the mantel-piece had a full view of the bookcase.

But the persons expressed no opinion. Indeed, I am not sure that William the Silent could read English; and Dundee's knowledge of literature was slight, if we may judge from his spelling. I should not, however, wish Hildegarde to hear me say this.

Failing to elicit a response from her two presiding heroes, our maiden turned to Sir Walter, who always knew just how things were; and from this the natural step was to the "Lay of the Last Minstrel" (which she had not read so very lately, she thought, with a guilty glance at the trunk and box, which stood in the middle of the room, yawning to be put away), and there was an end of Hildegarde till dinner-time.

"And that is why I was late, dear love!" she said, as after a hasty explanation of the above related doings, she sank down in her chair at the dinner-table, and gave a furtive pat to her hair, which she had smoothed rather hurriedly. "You know you would have brained me with the hammer, if I had not put it away, and that the tacks would have been served up on toast for my supper. Such is your ferocious disposition."

Mrs. Grahame smiled as she helped Hildegarde to soup. "Suppose a stranger should pass by that open window and hear your remarks," she said. "A pretty idea he would have of my maternal care. After all, my desire is to keep tacks out of your food. How long ago was it that I found a button in the cup of tea which a certain young woman of my acquaintance brought me?"

"Ungenerous!" exclaimed Hildegarde with tragic fervour. "It was only a glove-button. It dropped off my glove, and it would not have disagreed with you in the least. I move that we change the subject." And at that moment in came Janet with the veal cutlets.

CHAPTER IV.

But now Hildegarde wanted a long tramp; she wanted to explore that sunny meadow that lay behind the green garden, and the woods that fringed the meadow again beyond. So she put on a short corduroy skirt, that would not tear when it caught on the bushes, slung a tin plant-box over her shoulder, kissed her mother, who had a headache and could not go, and started off in high spirits. She was singing as she ran down the stairs and through auntie's sunny back yard, and the martial strains of "Bonny Dundee" rang merrily through the clear June air; but as she closed the garden door behind her, the song died away, for "one would as soon sing in a churchyard," she thought, "as in the Ladies' Garden." So she passed silently along between the box hedges, her footsteps making no sound on the mossy path, only the branches rustling softly as she put them aside. The afternoon sun sent faint gleams of pallid gold down through the branches of the great elm; they were like the ghosts of sunbeams. Her ear caught the sound of falling water, which she had not noticed before; she turned a corner, and lo! there was a dusky ravine, and a little dark stream falling over the rocks, and flowing along with a sullen murmur between banks of fern. It was part of the green world. The mysterious sadness of the deserted garden was here, too, and Hildegarde felt her glad spirits going down, down, as if an actual weight were pressing on her. But she shook off the oppression. "I will not!" she said. "I will not be enchanted to-day! Another day I will come and sit here, and the stream will tell me all the mournful story; I know it will if I sit long enough. But to-day I want joy, and sunshine, and cheerful things. Good-by, dear ladies! I hope you won't mind!" and grasping the hanging bough of a neighbouring elm, she swung herself easily down into the meadow.

It was a very pleasant meadow. The grass was long, so long that Hildegarde felt rather guilty at walking through it, and framed a mental apology to the farmer as she went along. It was full of daisies and sorrel, so it was not his best mowing-field, she thought. She plucked a daisy and pulled off the petals to see whether Rose loved her, and found she did not, which made her laugh in a foolish, happy way, since she knew better. Now she came to a huge sycamore-tree, a veritable giant, all scarred with white patches where the bark had dropped off. Beside it lay another, prostrate. The branches had been cut off, but the vast trunk showed that it had been even taller than the one which was now standing. "Baucis and Philemon!" said Hildegarde. "Poor dears! One is more sorry for the one who is left, I think, than for the fallen one. To see him lying here with his head off, and not to be able to do anything about it! She cannot even 'tear her ling-long yellow hair'—only it is green. I wonder who killed him." And she went on, murmuring to herself,—

Now she had reached the fringe of trees at the top of the slope, and found that it was the beginning of what looked like a considerable wood. "A pine wood!" said Hildegarde, sniffing the spicy perfume with delight. "Oh, pleasant place! No plants, but one cannot have everything. Oh! how good it smells! and hark to the sound of the sea! I shall call this Ramoth Hill." She walked along, keeping near the edge of the wood, where it was still warm and luminous with sunshine. Now she looked up into the murmuring cloud of branches above her, now she looked down at the burnished needles which made a soft, thick carpet under her feet; and she said again, "Oh, pleasant place!" Presently, in one of the upward glances, she stopped short. Her look, from carelessly wandering, became keen and intent. On one of the branches of the tree under which she stood was a small, round object. "A nest!" said Hildegarde. "The question is, What nest?" She walked round and round the tree, like a pointer who has "treed" a partridge; but no bird rose from the nest, nor could she see at all what manner of nest it was. Finding this to be the case, she transferred her scrutiny from the nest to the tree. It was a sturdy pine, with strong, broad branches jutting out, the lowest not so very far above her head, a most attractive tree, from every point of view. Hildegarde leaned against the trunk for a moment, smiling to herself, and listening to the "two voices." "You are seventeen years old," said one voice. "Not quite," said the other. "Not for a month yet. Besides, what if I were?" "Suppose some one should come by and see you?" said the first voice. "But no one will," replied the second. "And perhaps you can't do it, anyhow," continued the first; "it would be ridiculous to try, and fail." "Just wait and see!" said the second voice. And when it had said that, Hildegarde climbed the tree.

I shall not describe exactly how she did it, for it may not have been in the most approved style of the art; but she got up, and seated herself on the broad, spreading branch, not so very much out of breath, all things considered, and with only two scratches worth mentioning. After a moment's triumphant repose, she worked her way upward to where the nest was firmly fixed in a crotch, and bent eagerly over it. A kingbird's nest! this was great joy, for she had never found one before. There were five eggs in it, and she gazed with delight at the perfect little things. But when she touched them gently, she found them quite cold. The nest was deserted. "Bad little mother!" said Hildegarde. "How could you leave the lovely things? Such a perfect place to bring up a family in, too!" She looked around her. It was very pleasant up in this airy bower. Great level branches stretched above and below her, roof and floor of soft, dusky plumes. The keen, exquisite fragrance seemed to fold round her like a cloud; she felt fairly steeped in warmth and perfume. Sitting curled up on the great bough, her back resting against the trunk, the girl fell into a pleasant waking dream, her thoughts wandering idly here and there, and the sound of the sea in her ears. She was an enchanted princess, shut in a green tower by the sea. The sea loved her, and sang to her all day long the softest song he knew, and no angry waves ever came to make clamour and confusion. By and by a rescuer would come,—

"Hallo, there! you young rascal, come down! How dare you rob birds' nests in my woods?"

The voice was deep and stern, and Hildegarde started so violently that she nearly fell from her perch. She could not speak for the moment, but she looked down, and saw a fierce-looking old gentleman, clad in a black velvet coat and spotless white trousers, brandishing a thick stick, and peering with angry, short-sighted eyes up into the tree.

"Come down, I say!" he repeated sternly. "I'll teach you to rob my nests, you young vagabond!"

This was really not to be endured.

"I am not robbing the nest, sir!" cried Hildegarde, indignation overcoming her alarm. "I never did such a thing in my life. And I—I am not a boy!"

"Harry Monmouth!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "I beg ten thousand pardons! What are you?"

Hildegarde's first impulse was to say that she lived in Alaska (that being the most distant place she could think of), and was on her way thither; but fortunately the second thought came quickly, and she replied with as much dignity as the situation allowed:—

"I am the daughter of Mrs. Hugh Grahame. I live at Braeside" (I have forgotten to mention that this was the name of the new home), "and have wandered off our own grounds without knowing it. I am extremely sorry to be trespassing, but—but—I only wanted to see what kind of nest it was."

She stopped suddenly, feeling that there was a little sob somewhere about her, and that she would die rather than let it get into her voice. The old gentleman took off his hat.

"My dear young lady," he said, "the apologies are all on my side. Accept ten thousand of them, I beg of you! I am delighted to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Grahame's daughter, under—a—any circumstances." (Here he evidently suppressed a chuckle, and Hildegarde knew it, and hated him.) "Permit me to introduce myself,—Colonel Ferrers.

"I have been annoyed lately," he added kindly, "by thieving boys, and, being near-sighted, did not distinguish between a persecutor and a protector of my birds." He bowed again. "And now I will continue my walk, merely remarking that I beg you to consider yourself entirely free of my grounds, in any and every part. I shall do myself the honour of calling on your mother very shortly. Good-morning, my dear Miss Grahame!" and, with another bow, Colonel Ferrers replaced his felt wide-awake, and strode off across the meadow, flourishing his stick, and indulging in the chuckle which he had so long suppressed.

"Harry Monmouth!" he said to himself, as he switched the daisy-heads off. "So we have a fair tomboy for a neighbour. Well, it may be a good thing for Jack. I must take him over and introduce him."

Now Hildegarde was not in the least a tomboy, as we know; and the intuitive knowledge that the old gentleman would think her one made her very angry indeed. She waited till he was out of sight, and then slid down the tree, without a second glance at the kingbird's nest, the innocent cause of all the trouble. She had meant to take one egg, to add to her collection; but she would not touch one now, if there were a thousand of them. She ran down the long sunny slope of the meadow, her cheeks glowing, her heart still beating angrily. She was going straight home, to tell her mother all about it, and how horrid Colonel Ferrers had been, and how she should never come downstairs when he came to the house—never! "under any circumstances!" How dared he make fun of her? She sat down on the stone wall to rest, and thought how her mother would hear the tale with sympathetic indignation. But somehow—how was it?—when she conjured up her mother's face, there was a twinkle in her eye. Mamma had such a fatal way of seeing the funny side of things. Suppose she should only laugh at this dreadful adventure! Perhaps—perhaps it was funny, from Colonel Ferrers's point of view.

In short, by the time she reached home, Hildegarde had cooled off a good deal, and it was a modified version of the tragedy that Mrs. Grahame heard. She found this quite funny enough, however, and Hildegarde was almost, but not quite, ready to laugh with her.

That evening, mother and daughter were sitting on the broad verandah as usual, playing Encyclopædics. This was a game of Mrs. Grahame's own invention, and a favourite resource with her and Hildegarde in darkling hours like this. Perhaps some of my readers may like to know how the game is played, and, as the Dodo says of the Caucus Race, "the best way to explain it is to play it."

They began with the letter "A," and had already been playing some time, turn and turn about.

"Aphrodite, goddess of Love and Beauty."

"Ahasuerus, king of Persia, B.C. something or other, afflicted with sleeplessness."

"Alfred the Great, unsuccessful tender of cakes."

"Æneas, pious; from the flames of Troy did on his back the old Anchises bear; also deserted Dido."

"Ananias, liar."

"Anacreon, Greek poet."

"Allan-a-dale, minstrel and outlaw."

"Andromache, wife of Hector."

"Astyanax, son of the same."

"Oh—don't you think it's time to go on to B?" asked Hildegarde.

"I have several more A's," replied her mother.

"Well, my initials are not 'B. U.,'" said the girl, "but perhaps I can manage one or two more."

"B. U.?"

"Yes! Biographic Universelle, of course, dear. Artaxerxes, also king of Persia."

"Anne of Geierstein."

"Arabella Stuart."

"Ap Morgan, Ap Griffith, Ap Hugh, Ap Tudor, Ap Rice, quoth his roundelay."

"Oh! oh! that was one of my reserves. Azrael, the angel of death."

"Agamemnon, king of men."

"Alecto, Fury."

"Agag, who came walking delicately."

"Addison, Joseph, writer."

"Antony, Mark, Roman general, lover of Cleopatra."

"'Amlet, Prince of—"

"Hilda!" cried Mrs. Grahame. "For shame! It is certainly high time to go on to B, if you are going to behave in this way, and I shall put e d after it."

"Oh, no!" said Hildegarde, "I will be good. It isn't nine o'clock yet, I know. Buccleugh, Bold, Duke of, Warden here o' the Scottish side. I was determined to get him first."

"Balaam, prophet."

"Beatrice, in 'Much Ado about Nothing.'"

"Beatrix Esmond."

"Bruce, Robert, King of Scotland."

"Burns, Robert, King of Scottish poets."

"Oh! oh! well, I suppose he is!" Hilda admitted reluctantly. "But Sir Walter makes an admirable viceroy. I think—who is that? Mamma, there is some one coming up the steps."

"Mrs. Grahame?" said a deep voice, as two shadowy forms emerged from the darkness. "I am delighted to meet you again. You remember Colonel Ferrers?"

"Perfectly!" said Mrs. Grahame, cordially, advancing and holding out her hand. "I am very glad to see you. Colonel Ferrers,—though I hardly do see you!" she added, laughing. "Hildegarde, here is Colonel Ferrers, whom you met this morning."

"Good evening!" said Hildegarde, thinking that mamma was very cruel.

"Delighted!" said Colonel Ferrers, bowing again; and he added, "May I be allowed to present my nephew? Mrs. Grahame, Miss Grahame, my nephew, John Ferrers."

A tall figure bowed awkwardly, and a voice murmured something which might have been a greeting in English, Choctaw, or pure Polynesian, as it was wholly unintelligible.

"It is too pleasant an evening to spend in the house," said Mrs. Grahame. "I think you will find chairs, gentlemen, by a little judicious groping. Oh! I trust you are not hurt, Mr. Ferrers?" For Mr. Ferrers had tumbled over his chair, and was now sprawling at full length on the piazza. He gathered himself up again, apparently too much abashed to say a word.

"Oh! he's all right!" said Colonel Ferrers, laughing. "He's always tumbling about; just got his growth, you see, and hasn't learned what to do with it. Well, many things have happened since we met, Mrs. Grahame; we won't say how many years it is."

"Many things, indeed!" said Mrs. Grahame with a sigh.

"Yes! yes!" said Colonel Ferrers. "Poor Grahame! met him last year in town; never saw him looking better. Well, so it goes. Changing world, my dear Madame! Poor Aytoun, too! I miss him sadly. My only neighbour. We have been together a great deal since his sisters died. Yes! yes! very glad I was to hear that he had left the property to you. Not another soul to speak to in the neighbourhood."

"Who lives in the large new house across the way?" asked Mrs. Grahame. "I know the name of the family is Loftus, but nothing more."

"Parcel of fools, I call 'em!" said Colonel Ferrers, contemptuously. "New people, with money. Loftus, sharp business man, wants to be a gentleman farmer. As much idea of farming as my stick has. Wife and daughters look like a parcel o' fools. Don't know 'em! don't want to know 'em!" Mrs. Grahame, finding this not an agreeable subject, turned the conversation upon old friends, and they were soon deep in matters of twenty years ago.

Meanwhile Hildegarde and the bashful youth had sat in absolute silence. At first Hildegarde had been too much discomposed by her mother's allusion to the morning's adventure to speak, though she was able to see afterwards how much better it was to bring up the matter naturally, and then dismiss it as a thing of no consequence, as it was, than to let it hang, an unacknowledged cloud, in the background.

As the moments went on, however, she became conscious that it was her duty to entertain Mr. Ferrers. He evidently had no idea of saying anything; her mother and Colonel Ferrers had forgotten the presence of either of them, apparently. The silence became more and more awkward. What could she say to this gawky youth, whose face she could not even see? "What a lovely day it has been!" she finally remarked, and was startled by the sound of her own voice, though she was not usually shy in the least.

"Yes," said Mr. Ferrers, "it has been a fine day."

Silence again. This would never do! "Do you play tennis?" she asked boldly.

"No—not much!" was the reply. "Doesn't pay, in hot weather."

This was not encouraging, but Hildegarde was fairly roused by this time, and had no idea of being beaten. "What do you do?" she said.

Mr. Ferrers was silent, as if considering.

"Oh—I don't know!" he said finally. "Nothing much. Poke about!" Then, after a pause, he added in explanation, "I don't live here. I only came a few days ago. I am to spend the summer with my uncle." Apparently this effort was too much for him, for he relapsed into silence, and Hildegarde could get nothing more save "Yes!" and "No!" out of him. But now Colonel Ferrers came to the rescue.

"By the way, Mrs. Grahame," he said, "I think this boy must be a relation of yours, a Scotch cousin at least. His mother was a Grahame, daughter of Robert Grahame of Baltimore. His own name is John Grahame Ferrers."

"Is it possible?" cried Mrs. Grahame, greatly surprised. "If that is the case, he is much more than a Scotch cousin. Why, Robert Grahame was my dear husband's first cousin. Their fathers were brothers. Hugh often spoke of his cousin Robert, and regretted that they never met, as they were great friends in their boyhood. And this is his son! is it possible? My dear boy, I must shake hands with you again. You are a boy, aren't you, though you are so big?"

"To be sure he is a boy!" said Colonel Ferrers, who was highly delighted with his discovery of a relationship. "Just eighteen—a mere snip of a boy! Going to college in the autumn."

"Hildegarde," continued Mrs. Grahame, "shake hands with your cousin John, and tell him how glad you are to find him."

Hildegarde held out her hand, and John Ferrers tried to find it, but found a hanging-basket instead, and knocked it over, sending a shower of damp earth over the other members of the party.

"I must take him home," exclaimed Colonel Ferrers, in mock despair, "or he will destroy the whole house. Miss Hildegarde," he added, in a very kind voice, "you probably thought me an ogre this morning. I am generally regarded as such. Fact is, you frightened me more than I frightened you. We are not used to seeing young ladies here who know how to climb trees. Harry Monmouth! Wish I could climb 'em myself as I used. Best fun in the world! Come, Jack, I must get you home before you do any more mischief. Good-night, Mrs. Grahame! I trust we shall meet often!"

"I trust so, indeed!" said Mrs. Grahame heartily. "We shall count upon your being neighbourly, in the good old country sense; and as for John, he must do a cousin's duty by us, and shall in return receive the freedom of the house."

"Hum mum mum!" said John; at least, that is what it sounded like; on which his uncle seized him by the arm impatiently, and walked him off.

"Well, Mammina!" said Hildegarde, when the visitors were well out of hearing.

"Well, dear!" replied her mother placidly. "What a pleasant visit! The poor lad is very shy, isn't he? Could you make anything out of him?"

"Why, Mammina, he is a perfect goose!" exclaimed Hildegarde, warmly. "I don't think it was a pleasant visit at all. As to making anything out of that—"

"Fair and softly!" said Mrs. Grahame quietly. "In the first place, we will not criticise the guests who have just left us, because that is not pretty-behaved, as auntie would say. And in the second place—your dear father was just eighteen when I first met him, Hildegarde; and he put his foot through the flounce of my gown, upset strawberries and cream into my lap, and sat down on my new ivory fan, all at one tea-party."

"Good-night, dear mamma!" said Hildegarde meekly.

"Good-night, my darling! and don't forget that barn-door rent in your corduroy skirt, when you get up in the morning."

CHAPTER V.