felt, with no trimming at all, save a narrow scarlet ribbon; a pair of heavy castor gloves; a couple of white aprons, and one of brown holland, with long sleeves.  The next tray was filled with dresses,—­dresses which made Hilda’s eyes open wide again, as she laid them out, one by one, at full length.  There was a dark blue gingham with a red stripe, a brown gingham dotted with yellow daisies, a couple of light calicoes, each with a tiny figure or flower on it, a white lawn, and a sailor-suit of rough blue flannel.  All these dresses, and among them all not an atom of trimming.  No sign of an overskirt, no ruffle or puff, plaiting or ruching, no “Hamburg” or lace,—­nothing!  Plain round waists, neatly stitched at throat and wrists; plain round skirts, each with a deep hem, and not so much as a tuck by way of adornment.

Hildegarde drew a deep breath, and looked at the simple frocks with kindling eyes and flushing cheeks.  These were the sort of dresses that her mother’s servants wore at home.  Why was she condemned to wear them now,—­she, who delighted in soft laces and dainty embroideries and the clinging draperies which she thought suited her slender, pliant figure so well?  Was it a part of this whole scheme; and was the object of the scheme to humiliate her, to take away her self-respect, her proper pride?

Mechanically, but carefully, as was her wont, Hilda hung the despised frocks in the closet, put away the hats, after trying them on and approving of them, in spite of herself ("Of course,” she said, “mamma could not get an ugly hat, if she tried!"), and then proceeded to take out and lay in the bureau drawers the dainty under-clothing which filled the lower part of the trunk.  Under all was a layer of books, at sight of which Hilda gave a little cry of pleasure.  “Ah!” she said, “I shall not be quite alone;” for she saw at a glance that here were some old and dear friends.  Lovingly she took them up, one by one:  “Romances of the Middle Ages,” Percy’s “Reliques,” “Hereward,” and “Westward, Ho!” and, best-beloved of all, the “Adventures of Robin Hood,” by grace of Howard Pyle made into so strong an enchantment that the heart thrills even at sight of its good brown cover.  And here was her Tennyson and her Longfellow, and Plutarch’s Lives, and the “Book of Golden Deeds.”  Verily a goodly company, such as might even turn a prison into a palace.  But what was this, lying in the corner, with her Bible and Prayer-book, this white leather case, with—­ah!  Hilda—­with blue forget-me-nots delicately painted on it?  Hastily Hilda took it up and pressed the spring.  Her mother’s face smiled on her!  The clear, sweet eyes looked lovingly into hers; the tender mouth, which had never spoken a harsh or unkind word, seemed almost to quiver as if in life.  So kind, so loving, so faithful, so patient, always ready to sympathize, to help, to smile with one’s joy or to comfort one’s grief,—­her own dear, dear mother!  A mist came before the girl’s eyes.  She gazed at the miniature till she could no longer see it; and then, flinging herself down on the pillow again, she burst into a passion of tears, and sobbed and wept as if her heart would break.  No longer Queen Hildegardis, no longer the outraged and indignant “prisoner,” only Hilda,—­Hilda who wanted her mother!