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 elastic
sort. Her decisions were not hastily arrived at;
but once made, they were final and abiding. “You
might just as well try to oppose the Gulf Stream!”
Mr. Graham would say. “They do it sometimes
with icebergs, 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 insidious
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 obedience
and in truthfulness; 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.
DAME AND FARMER.
When the first shock was over, Hilda was rather glad
than otherwise to learn that there was to be no delay
in carrying out the odious plan. “The sooner
the better,” she said to herself. “I
certainly don’t want to see any of the girls
again, and the first plunge will be the worst of it.”
“What clothes am I to take?” she asked
her mother, in a tone which she mentally denominated
“quiet and cold,” though possibly some
people might have called it “sullen.”
“Your clothes are already packed, dear,”
replied Mrs. Graham; “you have only to pack
your dressing-bag, to be all ready for the start to-morrow.
See, here is your trunk, locked and strapped, and waiting
for the porter’s shoulder;” and she showed
Hilda a stout, substantial-looking trunk, bearing
the initials H.G.
“But, mamma,” Hilda began, wondering greatly,
“my dresses are all hanging in my wardrobe.”
“Not all of them, dear!” said her mother,
smiling. “Hark! papa is calling you.
Make haste and go down, for dinner is ready.”
Wondering more and more, Hildegarde made a hasty toilet,
putting on the pretty pale blue cashmere dress which
her father specially liked, with silk stockings to
match, and dainty slippers of bronze kid. As she
clasped the necklace of delicate blue and silver Venetian
beads which completed the costume, she glanced into
the long cheval-glass which stood between the windows,
and could not help giving a little approving nod to
her reflection. Though not a great beauty, Hildegarde
