golden corn, and long festoons of dried apples.  In one window stood the good dame’s rocking-chair, with its gay patchwork cushion; and her Bible, spectacles, and work-basket lay on the window-seat beside it.  In another was a huge leather arm-chair, which Hilda rightly supposed to be the farmer’s, and a wonderful piece of furniture, half desk, half chest of drawers, with twisted legs and cupboards and pigeon-holes and tiny drawers, and I don’t know what else.  The third window Hilda thought was the prettiest of all.  It faced the west, and the full glory of sunset was now pouring through the clustering vines which partly shaded it.  The sash was open, and a white rose was leaning in and nodding in a friendly way, as if greeting the new-comer.  A low chair and a little work-table, both of quaint and graceful fashion, stood in the recess; and on the window-seat stood some flowering-plants in pretty blue and white pots.

“I suppose I am expected to sit there!” said Hilda to herself.  “As if I should sit down in a kitchen!” But all the while she knew in her heart of hearts that this was one of the most attractive rooms she had ever seen, and that that particular corner was pretty enough and picturesque enough for a queen to sit in.  You are not to think that she saw all these things at the first glance; far from it.  There was something else in the room which claimed the immediate attention of our heroine, and that was a square oak table, shining like a mirror, and covered with good things,—­cold chicken, eggs and bacon, golden butter and honey, a great brown loaf on a wonderful carved wooden platter, delicate rolls piled high on a shallow blue dish, and a portly glass jug filled with rich, creamy milk.  Here was a pleasant sight for a hungry heroine of fifteen!  But alas! at the head of this inviting table sat Farmer Hartley, the “odious savage,” in his rough homespun coat, with his hair still very far from smooth (though indeed he had brushed it, and the broad, horny hands were scrupulously clean).  With a slight shudder Hilda took the seat which Dame Hartley offered her.

“Well, Huldy,” said the farmer, looking up from his eggs and bacon with a cheery smile, “here ye be, eh?  Rested after yer journey, be ye?”

“Yes, thank you!” said Hilda, coldly.

“Have some chick’n!” he continued, putting nearly half a chicken on her plate.  “An’ a leetle bacon, jes’ ter liven it up, hey?  That’s right!  It’s my idee thet most everythin’ ‘s the better for a bit o’ bacon, unless it’s soft custard.  I d’ ’no ez thet ’ud go with it pitickler.  Haw! haw!”

Hilda kept her eyes on her plate, determined to pay no attention to the vulgar pleasantries of this unkempt monster.  It was hard enough to eat with a steel fork, without being further tormented.  But the farmer seemed determined to drag her into conversation.

“How’s yer ha-alth in gineral, Huldy?  Pooty rugged, be ye?  Seems to me ye look kin’ o’ peaked.”