“Remember that you are both coming over this morning,” called Mrs. Merryweather, cheerfully.  “I mean this evening, of course, to tea.  We will have some music.  Kitty, my dear, we must go to our French.”

“Shall we bring our sewing out on the verandah, mammy?” asked Hilda, rousing herself from a little reverie.  “Ah, you have the letters, sly one, and never told me!”

“I doubted if there was anything that would interest you, my love,” said Mrs. Grahame.  “Yes; let us have our work, by all means.  There are one or two business letters that I should like you to look over.”

Hilda smiled and departed, revolving the thought that she was a selfish and empty-headed wretch.  She did not want to read business letters; she wanted to be on a wheel, flying over the smooth road, with the wind lifting her hair and breathing cool against her cheek.  And here was her mother sitting alone, and the new tablecloths to hem, and—­and altogether—­“If you could tell me why they thought it worth while to keep you,” she said to herself, “I should be glad to know it.  Perhaps you can tell me what P-I-G spells.”

Returning with the wide sewing basket, she found her mother looking over a pile of letters.  “It is high time,” said Mrs. Grahame, “that you began to take some interest in business matters.”  Hildegarde wondered what was coming; her mother looked very grave; she held in her hand a square grey envelope.  “I shall be greatly obliged, therefore, my dear,” her mother continued, with the same portentous gravity, “if—­you would—­read that”; and she gave the letter to Hildegarde.

“Oh, mamma! you wicked, wicked deceiver!  You frightened me almost to death; and it is from Jack, dear old Jack.  Oh, how delightful!  You pleasant person, Mrs. Grahame; I forgive you, though my heart still throbs with terror.  Are you all comfortable, my own?  Your little feet all tucked up beneath your petticoat, so that they cannot steal in and out?  Don’t you want a glass of milk, or a cracker, or a saddle of mutton, or anything else?  Then be silent! and oh, how happy we shall be!” Hildegarde settled herself in her chair, sighed with pleasure, and broke the seal of the fat letter.

“Dear Hilda:  It seems an age since I last wrote, but there is so much going on I have hardly time to breathe.  There have been some awfully jolly concerts this spring, and I have been going to them, and practising four hours a day, and having lessons and all that.  Herr J. played at the last two concerts, and I know what heaven is like—­my heaven, at least—­since I heard him.  He played—­”

Here followed an accurate list of the great violinist’s performances, covering three sheets of note-paper.