"And have you decided¹ what is to become of Hilda?" asked Mrs. Graham.  
"Hilda?" replied her husband, in a tone of surprise, "Hilda? why, she will go with us, of course. What else should become of the child? She will enjoy the trip immensely, I have no doubt."
 
Mrs. Graham sighed and shook her head. "I fear that is impossible, dear George!" she said. "To tell the truth, I am a little anxious about Hilda; she is not at all well. I don't mean that she is actually ill," she added quickly, as Mr. Graham looked up in alarm, "but she seems languid and dispirited, has no appetite, and is inclined to be fretful,—an unusual thing for her."
 
"Needs a change!" said Mr. Graham, shortly. "Best thing for her. Been studying too hard, I suppose, and eating caramels. If I could discover the man who invented that pernicious sweetmeat, I would have him hanged!—hanged, madam!"
 
"Oh, no, you wouldn't, dear!" said his wife, laughing softly; "I think his life would be quite safe. But about Hilda now! She does need a change, certainly; but is the overland journey in July just the right kind of change for her, do you think?"
 
Mr. Graham frowned, ran his fingers through his hair, drummed on the table, and then considered his boots attentively². "Well—no!" he said at last, reluctantly. "I—suppose—not. But what can we do with her? Send her to Fred and Mary at the seashore?"
 
"To sleep in a room seven by twelve, and be devoured³ by mosquitoes, and have to wear 'good clothes' all the time?" returned Mrs. Graham. "Certainly not."
 
"Aunt Emily is going to the mountains," suggested Mr. Graham, doubtfully.
 
"Yes," replied his wife, "with sixteen trunks, a maid, a footman, and three lapdogs! That would never do for Hilda."
 
"You surely are not thinking of leaving her alone here with the servants?"
 
The lady shook her head. "No, dear; such poor wits as Heaven granted me are not yet entirely⁵ gone, thank you!"
 
Mr. Graham rose from his chair and flung out both arms in a manner peculiar⁶ to him when excited. "Now, now, now, Mildred!" he said impressively, "I have always said that you were a good woman, and I shall continue to assert the same; but you have powers of tormenting⁷ that could not be surpassed by the most heartless of your sex. It is perfectly⁸ clear, even to my darkened mind, that you have some plan for Hilda fully⁴ matured and arranged in that scheming little head of yours; so what is your object in keeping me longer in suspense⁹? Out with it, now! What are you—for of course I am in reality only a cipher¹⁰ (a tolerably large cipher) in the sum—what are you, the commander-in-chief, going to do with Hilda, the lieutenant-general? If you will kindly¹¹ inform the orderly-sergeant, he will act accordingly, and endeavor to do his duty."
 
Pretty Mrs. Graham laughed again, and looked up at the six-feet-two of sturdy manhood standing¹² on the hearth-rug, gazing at her with eyes which twinkled merrily under the fiercely frowning brows. "You are a very disorderly-sergeant, dear!" she said. "Just look at your hair! It looks as if all the four winds had been blowing through it—"
 
"Instead of all the ten fingers going through it," interrupted her husband. "Never mind my hair; that is not the point. What—do—you—propose—to—do—with—your daughter—Hildegarde, or Hildegardis, as it should properly be written?"
 
"Well, dear George," said the commander-in-chief (she was a very small woman and a very pretty one, though she had a daughter "older than herself," as her husband said; and she wore a soft lilac gown, and had soft, wavy¹³ brown hair, and was altogether very pleasant to look at)—"well, dear George, the truth is, I have a little plan, which I should like very much to carry out, if you fully approve of it."
 
"Ha!" said Mr. Graham, tossing his "tempestuous¹⁴ locks" again, "ho! I thought as much. If I approve, eh, little madam? Better say, whether I approve or not."
 
So saying, the good-natured giant sat himself down again, and listened while his wife unfolded her plan; and what the plan was, we shall see by and by. Meanwhile let us take a peep at Hilda, or Hildegardis, as she sits in her own room, all unconscious of the plot which is hatching in the parlor¹⁵ below. She is a tall girl of fifteen. Probably she has attained¹⁶ her full height, for she looks as if she had been growing too fast; her form is slender, her face pale, with a weary look in the large gray eyes. It is a delicate, high-bred face, with a pretty nose, slightly "tip-tilted," and a beautiful mouth; but it is half-spoiled by the expression, which is discontented, if not actually peevish¹⁷. If we lifted the light curling locks of fair hair which lie on her forehead, we should see a very decided frown on a broad white space which ought to be absolutely smooth. Why should a girl of fifteen frown, especially a girl so "exceptionally fortunate" as all her friends considered Hilda Graham? Certainly her surroundings at this moment are pretty enough to satisfy any girl. The room is not large, but it has a sunny bay-window which seems to increase its size twofold. In re-furnishing it a year before, her father had in mind Hilda's favorite flower, the forget-me-not, and the room is simply a bower¹⁹ of forget-me-nots. Scattered²⁰ over the dull olive ground of the carpet, clustering and nodding from the wall-paper, peeping from the folds of the curtains, the forget-me-nots are everywhere. Even the creamy surface of the toilet-jug and bowl, even the ivory backs of the brushes that lie on the blue-covered toilet table, bear each its cluster of pale-blue blossoms; while the low easy-chair in which the girl is reclining, and the pretty sofa with its plump cushions inviting²¹ to repose²², repeat the same tale. The tale is again repeated, though in a different way, by a scroll²³ running round the top of the wall, on which in letters of blue and gold is written at intervals²⁴: "Ne m'oubliez pas!" "Vergiss mein nicht!" "Non ti scordar!" and the same sentiment is repeated in Spanish, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, of all which tongues the fond father possessed²⁵ knowledge.
 
Is not this indeed a bower, wherein a girl ought to be happy? the bird in the window thinks his blue and gold cage the finest house in the world, and sings as heartily²⁶ and cheerily as if he had been in the wide green forest; but his mistress does not sing. She sits in the easy-chair, with a book upside-down in her lap, and frowns,—actually frowns, in a forget-me-not bower! There is not much the matter, really. Her head aches, that is all. Her German lesson has been longer and harder than usual, and her father was quite right about the caramels; there is a box of them on the table now, within easy reach of the slim white hand with its forget-me-not ring of blue turquoises²⁷. (I do not altogether agree with Mr. Graham about hanging the caramel-maker, but I should heartily like to burn all his wares²⁸. Fancy a great mountain of caramels and chocolate-creams and marrons glacés piled up in union Square, for example, and blazing away merrily,—that is, if the things would burn, which is more than doubtful. How the maidens²⁹ would weep and wring³⁰ their hands while the heartless parents chuckled³¹ and fed the flames with all the precious treasures of Maillard and Huyler! Ah! it is a pleasant thought, for I who write this am a heartless parent, do you see?)
 
As I said before, Hilda had no suspicion of the plot which her parents were concocting³². She knew that her father was obliged to go to San Francisco, being called suddenly to administer the estate of a cousin who had recently died there, and that her mother and—as she supposed—herself were going with him to offer sympathy and help to the widow, an invalid³³ with three little children. As to the idea of her being left behind; of her father's starting off on a long journey without his lieutenant-general; of her mother's parting from her only child, whom she had watched with tender care and anxiety since the day of her birth,—such a thought never came into Hilda's mind. Wherever her parents went she went, as a matter of course. So it had always been, and so without doubt it always would be. She did not care specially¹⁸ about going to California at this season of the year,—in fact she had told her bosom³⁴ friend, Madge Everton, only the day before, that it was "rather a bore," and that she should have preferred to go to Newport. "But what would you?" she added, with the slightest shrug³⁵ of her pretty shoulders. "Papa and mamma really must go, it appears; so of course I must go too."
 
"A bore!" repeated Madge energetically, replying to the first part of her friend's remarks. "Hilda, what a very singular girl you are! Here I, or Nelly, or any of the other girls would give both our ears, and our front teeth too, to make such a trip; and just because you can go, you sit there and call it 'a bore!'" And Madge shook her black curls, and opened wide eyes of indignation and wonder at our ungrateful heroine. "I only wish," she added, "that you and I could be changed into each other, just for this summer."
 
"I wish—" began Hilda; but she checked herself in her response to the wish, as the thought of Madge's five brothers rose in her mind (Hilda could not endure boys!), looked attentively at the toe of her little bronze slipper³⁶ for a few moments, and then changed the subject by proposing a walk. "Console yourself with the caramels, my fiery³⁷ Madge," she said, pushing the box across the table, "while I put on my boots. We will go to Maillard's and get some more while we are out. His caramels are decidedly better than Huyler's; don't you think so!"
 
A very busy woman was pretty Mrs. Graham during the next two weeks. First she made an expedition into the country "to see an old friend," she said, and was gone two whole days. And after that she was out every morning, driving hither and thither³⁸, from shop to dressmaker, from dressmaker to milliner, from milliner to shoemaker.
 
"It is a sad thing," Mr. Graham would say, when his wife fluttered in to lunch, breathless and exhausted³⁹ and half an hour late (she, the most punctual of women!),—"it is a sad thing to have married a comet by mistake, thinking it was a woman. How did you find the other planets this morning, my dear? Is it true that Saturn⁴⁰ has lost one of his rings? and has the Sun recovered from his last attack of spots? I really fear," he would add, turning to Hilda, "that this preternatural activity in your comet-parent portends⁴¹ some alarming change in the—a—atmospheric phenomena⁴², my child. I would have you on your guard!" and then he would look at her and sigh, shake his head, and apply himself to the cold chicken with melancholy⁴³ vigor⁴⁴.
 
Hilda thought nothing of her father's remarks,—papa was always talking nonsense, and she thought she always understood him perfectly. It did occur to her, however, to wonder at her mother's leaving her out on all her shopping expeditions. Hilda rather prided herself on her skill in matching shades and selecting fabrics⁴⁵, and mamma was generally glad of her assistance in all such matters. However, perhaps it was only under-clothing and house-linen, and such things that she was buying. All that was the prosy part of shopping. It was the poetry of it that Hilda loved,—the shimmer⁴⁶ of silk and satin, the rich shadows in velvet⁴⁷, the cool, airy fluttering of lawn and muslin and lace. So the girl went on her usual way, finding life a little dull, a little tiresome⁴⁸, and most people rather stupid, but everything on the whole much as usual, if her head only would not ache so; and it was without a shadow of suspicion that she obeyed one morning her mother's summons to come and see her in her dressing-room.
 
Mr. Graham always spoke⁴⁹ of his wife's dressing-room as "the citadel⁵⁰." It was absolutely impregnable, he said. In the open field of the drawing-room or the broken country of the dining-room it might be possible—he had never known such a thing to occur, but still it might be possible—for the commander-in-chief to sustain a defeat; but once intrenched behind the walls of the citadel, horse, foot, and dragoons might storm and charge upon her, but they could not gain an inch. Not an inch, sir! True it was that Mrs. Graham always felt strongest in this particular room. She laughed about it, but acknowledged the fact. Here, on the wall, hung a certain picture which was always an inspiration to her. Here, on the shelf above her desk, were the books of her heart, the few tried friends to whom she turned for help and counsel when things puzzled her. (Mrs. Graham was never disheartened. She didn't believe there was such a word. She was only "puzzled" sometimes, until she saw her way and her duty clear before her, and then she went straight forward, over a mountain or through a stone wall, as the case might be.) Here, in the drawer of her little work-table, were some relics,—a tiny, half-worn shoe, a little doll, a sweet baby face laughing from an ivory frame: the insignia of her rank in the great order of sorrowing mothers; and these, perhaps, gave her that great sympathy and tenderness for all who were in trouble which drew all sad hearts towards her.
 
And so, on this occasion, the little woman had sat for a few moments looking at the pictured face on the wall, with its mingled⁵¹ majesty⁵² and sweetness; had peeped into the best-beloved of all books, and said a little prayer, as was her wont⁵³ when "puzzled," before she sent the message to Hilda,—for she knew that she must sorely hurt and grieve the child who was half the world to her; and though she did not flinch⁵⁴ from the task, she longed for strength and wisdom to do it in the kindest and wisest way.
 
"Hilda, dear," she said gently, when they were seated together on the sofa, hand in hand, with each an arm round the other's waist, as they loved best to sit,—"Hilda, dear, I have something to say that will not please you; something that may even grieve you very much at first." She paused, and Hilda rapidly reviewed in her mind all the possibilities that she could think of. Had anything happened to the box of French dresses which was on its way from Paris? Had a careless servant broken the glass of her fernery again? Had Aunt Emily been saying disagreeable things about her, as she was apt to do? She was about to speak, but at that moment, like a thunderbolt, the next words struck her ear: "We have decided not to take you with us to California." Amazed, wounded, indignant, Hilda could only lift her great gray eyes to meet the soft violet ones which, full of unshed tears, were fixed⁵⁵ tenderly upon her. Mrs. Graham continued: "Your father and I both feel, my darling, that this long, fatiguing⁵⁶ journey, in the full heat of summer, would be the worst possible thing for you. You have not been very well lately, and it is most important that you should lead a quiet, regular, healthy life for the next few months. We have therefore made arrangements to leave you—"
 
But here Hilda could control herself no longer. "Mamma! mamma!" she cried. "How can you be so unkind, so cruel? Leave me—you and papa both? Why, I shall die! Of course I shall die, all alone in this great house. I thought you loved me!" and she burst into tears, half of anger, half of grief, and sobbed⁵⁷ bitterly.
 
"Dear child!" said Mrs. Graham, smoothing the fair hair lovingly, "if you had heard me out, you would have seen that we had no idea of leaving you alone, or of leaving you in this house either. You are to stay with—"
 
"Not with Aunt Emily!" cried the girl, springing to her feet with flashing eyes. "Mamma, I would rather beg in the streets than stay with Aunt Emily. She is a detestable, ill-natured, selfish woman."
 
"Hildegarde," said Mrs. Graham gravely, "be silent!" There was a moment of absolute stillness, broken only by the ticking of the little crystal clock on the mantelpiece, and then Mrs. Graham continued: "I must ask you not to speak again, my daughter, until I have finished what I have to say; and even then, I trust you will keep silence until you are able to command yourself. You are to stay with my old nurse, Mrs. Hartley, at her farm near Glenfield. She is a very kind, good woman, and will take the best possible care of you. I went to the farm myself last week, and found it a lovely place, with every comfort, though no luxuries, save the great one of a free, healthy, natural life. There, my Hilda, we shall leave you, sadly indeed, and yet feeling that you are in good and loving hands. And I feel very sure," she added in a lighter⁵⁸ tone, "that by the time we return, you will be a rosy-cheeked country lass, strong and hearty⁵⁹, with no more thought of headaches, and no wrinkle in your forehead." As she ceased speaking, Mrs. Graham drew the girl close to her, and kissed the white brow tenderly, murmuring: "God bless my darling daughter! If she knew how her mother's heart aches at parting with her!" But Hilda did not know. She was too angry, too bewildered, too deeply hurt, to think of any one except herself. She felt that she could not trust herself to speak, and it was in silence, and without returning her mother's caress⁶⁰, that she rose and sought her own room.
 
Mrs. Graham looked after her wistfully, tenderly, but made no effort to call her back. The tears trembled in her soft blue eyes, and her lip quivered as she turned to her work-table; but she said quietly to herself: "Solitude⁶¹ is a good medicine. The child will do well, and I know that I have chosen wisely for her."
 
Bitter tears did Hildegarde shed as she flung herself face downward on her own blue sofa. Angry thoughts surged through her brain. Now she burned with resentment⁶² at the parents who could desert her,—their only child; now she melted into pity for herself, and wept more and more as she pictured the misery⁶³ that lay before her. To be left alone—alone!—on a squalid, wretched farm, with a dirty old woman, a woman who had been a servant,—she, Hildegardis Graham, the idol⁶⁴ of her parents, the queen of her "set" among the young people, the proudest and most exclusive girl in New York, as she had once (and not with displeasure) heard herself called!
 
What would Madge Everton, what would all the girls say! How they would laugh, to hear of Hilda Graham living on a farm among pigs and hens and dirty people! Oh! it was intolerable; and she sprang up and paced the floor, with burning cheeks and flashing eyes.
 
The thought of opposing the plan did not occur to her. Mrs. Graham's rule, gentle though it was, was not of the flabby, nor yet of the elastic⁶⁵ sort. Her decisions were not hastily arrived at; but once made, they were final and abiding⁶⁶. "You might just as well try to oppose the Gulf⁶⁷ Stream!" Mr. Graham would say. "They do it sometimes with icebergs⁶⁸, and what is the result? In a few days the great clumsy things are bowing and scraping and turning somersaults, and fairly jostling each other in their eagerness to obey the guidance of the insidious⁶⁹ current. Insidious Current, will you allow a cup of coffee to drift in my direction? I shall be only too happy to turn a somersault if it will afford you—thanks!—the smallest gratification."
 
So Hildegarde's first lessons had been in obedience⁷⁰ and in truthfulness⁷¹; and these were fairly well learned before she began her ABC. And so she knew now, that she might storm and weep as she would in her own room, but that the decree was fixed, and that unless the skies fell, her summer would be passed at Hartley's Glen.