Happily, happily, the days and weeks slipped by at Hartley Farm; and now September was half gone, and in two weeks more Hilda's parents would return. The letter had just arrived which fixed¹ the date of their homecoming and Hildegarde had carried it upstairs to feast on it in her own room. She sat by the window in the little white rocking-chair, and read the words over and over again. In two weeks—really in two little weeks—she should see her mother again! It was too good to be true.  
"Dragons, do you hear?" she cried, turning towards the wash-handstand. "You have seen my mother, Dragons, and she has washed her little blessed face in your bowl. I should think that might have stopped your ramping⁴, if anything could. Or have you been waving your paws for joy ever since? I may have been unjust to you, Dragons."
 
The blue dragons, as usual, refused to commit themselves; and, as usual, the gilt⁵ cherubs⁶ round the looking-glass were shocked at their rudeness, and tried to atone⁷ for it by smiling as hard as they possibly could.
 
"Such dear, sympathetic cherubs!" said the happy girl, bending forward to kiss one of them as she was brushing her hair. "You do not ramp³ and glower⁸ when one tells you that one's mother is coming home. I know you are glad, you dear old things!"
 
And then, suddenly, even while she was laughing at the cherubs, a thought struck her which sent a pang⁹ through her heart. The cherubs would still smile, just the same, when she was gone! Ah! it was not all delight, this great news. There was sorrow mingled¹⁰ with the rapture¹¹. Her heart was with her parents, of course. The mere¹² thought of seeing her mother's face, of hearing her father's voice, sent the blood dancing through her veins¹³. And yet—she must leave the farm; she must leave Nurse Lucy and the farmer, and they would miss her. They loved her; ah! how could they help it, when she loved them so much? And the pain came again at her heart as she recalled the sad smile with which the farmer had handed her this letter. "Good news for you, Huldy," he said, "but bad for the rest of us, I reckon!" Had he had word also, or did he just know that this was about the time they had meant to return? Oh, but she would come out so often to the farm! Papa and mamma would be willing, would wish her to come; and she could not live long at a time in town, without refreshing¹⁴ herself with a breath of real air, country air. She might have wilted¹⁵ along somehow for sixteen years; but she had never been really alive—had she?—till this summer.
 
Pink and Bubble too! they would miss her almost as much. But that did not trouble her, for she had a plan in her head for Pink and Bubble,—a great plan, which was to be whispered to Papa almost the very moment she saw him,—not quite the very moment, but the next thing to it. The plan would please Nurse Lucy and the farmer too,—would please them almost as much as it delighted her to think about it.
 
Happy thought! She would go down now and tell the farmer about it. Nurse Lucy was lying down with a bad headache, she knew; but the farmer was still in the kitchen. She heard him moving about now, though he had said he was going off to the orchard¹⁶. She would steal in softly and startle him, and then—
 
Full of happy and loving thoughts, Hildegarde slipped quietly down the stairs and across the hall, and peeped in at the kitchen-door to see what the farmer was doing. He was at the farther end of the room, with his back turned to her, stooping down over his desk. What was he doing? What a singular attitude he was in! Then, all in a moment, Hilda's heart seemed to stop beating, and her breath came thick and short; for she saw that this man before her was not the farmer. The farmer had not long elf-locks of black hair straggling over his coat-collar; he was not round-shouldered or bow-legged; above all, he would not be picking the lock of his own desk, for this was what the man before her was doing. Silent as her own shadow, Hildegarde slipped back into the hall and stood still a moment, collecting her thoughts. What should she do? Call Dame¹⁷ Hartley? The "poor dear" was suffering much, and why should she be disturbed? Run to find the farmer? She might have to run all over the farm! No; she would attend to this herself. She was not in the least afraid. She knew pretty well what ugly face would look up at her when she spoke¹⁸; for she felt sure that the slouching, ungainly figure was that of Simon Hartley. Her heart burned with indignation against the graceless, thankless churl¹⁹ who could rob the man on whose charity he had been living for two years. She made a step forward, with words of righteous wrath²⁰ on her lips; then paused, as a new thought struck her. This man was an absolute ruffian; and though she believed him to be an absolute coward also, still he must know that she and Dame Hartley were alone in the house. He must know also that the farmer was at some distance, else he would not have ventured to do this. What should she do? she asked herself again. She looked round her, and her eyes fell upon the old horse-pistol which rested on a couple of hooks over the door. The farmer had taken it down only a day or two before, to show it to her and tell her its story. It was not loaded, but Simon did not know that. She stepped lightly up on a chair, and in a moment had taken the pistol down. It was a formidable-looking weapon, and Hildegarde surveyed it with much satisfaction as she turned once more to enter the kitchen. Unloaded as it was, it gave her a feeling of entire confidence; and her voice was quiet and steady as she said:
 
"Simon Hartley, what are you doing to your uncle's desk?"
 
The man started violently and turned round, his hands full of papers, which he had taken from one of the drawers. He changed color when he saw "the city gal²¹," as he invariably termed Hilda, and he answered sullenly²², "Gitt'n someth'n for Uncle."
 
"That is not true," said Hildegarde, quietly, "I have heard your uncle expressly forbid you to go near that desk. Put those papers back!"
 
The man hesitated, his little, ferret eyes shifting uneasily from her to the desk and back again. "I guess I ain't goin' to take orders from no gal!" he muttered, huskily.
 
"Put those papers back!" repeated Hildegarde sternly, with a sudden light in her gray eyes which made the rascal²³ step backward and thrust the papers hurriedly into the drawer. After which he began to bluster²⁴, as is the manner of cowards. "Pooty thing, city gals²⁵ comin' hectorin' round with their airs an'—"
 
"Shut the drawer!" said Hildegarde, quietly.
 
But Simon's sluggish²⁶ blood was warmed by his little bluster, and he took courage as he reflected that this was only a slight girl, and that no one else was in the house except "Old Marm," and that many broad meadows intervened between him and the farmer's stout²⁷ arm. He would frighten her a bit, and get the money after all.
 
"We'll see about that!" he said, taking a step towards Hilda, with an evil look in his red eyes. "I'll settle a little account with you fust, my fine lady. I'll teach you to come spyin' round on me this way. Ye ain't give me a civil word sence ye come here, an' I'll pay ye—"
 
Here Simon stopped suddenly; for without a word Hildegarde had raised the pistol (which he had not seen before, as her hand was behind her), and levelled it full at his head, keeping her eyes steadily²⁸ fixed on him. With a howl of terror the wretch²⁹ staggered back, putting up his hands to

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