where the usual
brown stone houses had rather a special look of care and neatness. There
were many flowers in the windows; the curtains were more often muslin
than lace, but they were fresh and white, and one felt that it was a
pleasant neighbourhood, a neighbourhood of homes.

"You have been here before, dear?" asked Mrs. Hartley.

"No," replied Hildegarde. "I have been meaning all the fall to come,
ever since they came back from Europe and took this house, but one thing
and another has prevented. As I told you, I meant to try to see them
to-day, in any case. But Rose does not know I am in town; it will be
another surprise. Dear Rose!"

"Well, I do suppose Pinkrosia'll be glad to see you!" said Jacob
Hartley. "But if she sets up to be as glad as Marm Lucy and I be, she'll
have to hear something, that's all. Huldy Grahame's my gal this time,
and no mistake!"

Hildegarde wondered what the Colonel would say to this; wondered also if
there were any one else--but the thought dismissed itself unfinished.

Here they were now, in a pretty, homelike parlour, hung with
rose-colour,--ah! Doctor Fowler always had the prettiest ideas!--waiting
for their hostess. A light step on the stairs! As it came down, quickly
and steadily, Hildegarde saw many pictures, all in a moment. First, a
girl in a wheeled chair, pale and sweet-faced, saying quietly that she
could not walk,--that she had not walked since she was three years
old,--pointing out the beauty and convenience of her precious chair, in
which she was a prisoner. Then, herself, Hildegarde Grahame, walking up
and down the anteroom of the hospital, waiting in an agony of suspense
for news; then her mother's face, and Doctor Flower behind her, both
smiling, and the blessed words, "It is all right!"

The tears sprang to her eyes. Then came the vision of their two selves,
herself and her friend, in their happy, happy holiday summer at Cousin
Wealthy Bond's; the gradual recovery, the roses coming in the pale
cheeks, the step, growing ever firmer, more elastic. Then--but there was
time for no more. Here she was at the door, Rose Flower, no longer a
cripple, no longer even an invalid, but the happy wife of one of the
best men in the world.

Rose's cry of surprise was very different from the clarion shout with
which Helena Desmond had greeted her friend. It was soft and low,--a
note like that of a bird coming home to its nest. "Hilda! my Hilda! oh,
happy, happy day!"

The two gi