out by the kindly campers.  It was all the boy’s fault, and there was no excuse for him.  She ought to have known better than to come among such.  But here Hilda pressed her hand, and said “Be still!” in a low tone, but with a flash of the eye that so forcibly recalled the “Queen Hildegarde” of old days that Madge subsided, and whimpered to herself till the steamer came to take her back to Pollock’s Cove.

When she was gone Hildegarde slipped away, saying that she would pick some apples for tea; and on reaching the apple tree, she sat down under its hanging branches and indulged in a good cry, a rare luxury for her.  It was a comfort to let the tears come, and to tell the friendly tree over and over again that he would never forgive her; that she was the most imbecile creature that ever lived, and that Madge was the only person she deserved to have for a friend, and that, now the others had found her out, the sooner she went home to her mother the better.  Her mother would not expect her to be sensible; her mother knew better than to expect things of her.  She was not fit to be with these people, who were so terribly clever, and knew so many things:  and so on and so on, in the most astonishing way, our quiet, self-possessed girl sobbing and crying as if her heart would break, utterly amazed at herself, and wondering all the time what was the matter with her, and whether she would ever be able to stop.

She stopped suddenly enough; for Roger, coming through the fields with the milk, heard this piteous sobbing, and setting down his cans, parted the branches of the apple tree, saying in his kindest voice:  “Why, my Kitty, my Pretty, what is the matter with you? who hurt my little—­I—­I beg your pardon, Miss Grahame!”

Hildegarde felt the hand of fate very heavy on her, but was quite helpless, and sobbed harder than ever.

What was a poor professor to do?  Fortunately, Roger had plenty of sisters, and knew that a girl did not kill herself when she cried.  After a moment’s thought, in which he reminded himself severely that he was getting to be an old fellow, and might be this child’s uncle, he came under the tree and sat down on the grass.

“Can you tell me what troubles you?” he asked, still in the gentle voice that was rather specially Kitty’s privilege.  “You have had no bad news?”

Hilda shook her head.

“Perhaps if you were to tell me what the trouble is, I could help you; or would you rather I would go away and not bother you?”

No!  Hildegarde, to her own amazement, would rather he stayed.  Whereupon, Roger, drawing from his experience of girls, perceived that there was nothing to do but sit and wait till the storm had spent itself.  So he picked the apples within his reach, and reflected on the feminine character.

Presently a small and shaken voice said from under the handkerchief, “I—­am so sorry—­you got wet, Captain Roger!”

“Got wet?” said Roger, vaguely.  He was generally more or less wet, being an amphibious creature, and did not for the moment grasp Hildegarde’s meaning.