Hildegardis Graham.
“And have you decided 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
attentively. “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
devoured 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 entirely
gone, thank you!”
Mr. Graham rose from his chair and flung out both
arms in a manner peculiar 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 tormenting that could not be surpassed by
the most heartless of your sex. It is perfectly
clear, even to my darkened mind, that you have some
plan for Hilda fully matured and arranged in that
scheming little head of yours; so what is your object
in keeping me longer in suspense? Out with it,
now! What are you—for of course I am
in reality only a cipher (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 kindly inform the orderly-sergeant, he
will act accordingly, and endeavor to do his duty.”
