t want me, and
look over my drawer. I really haven't looked at it--thoroughly, that
is--for three days! Hilda Grahame, what a goose you are!"

By this time she had arrived at Braeside, the pretty house where she and
her mother passed their happy, quiet life. Running lightly up the steps,
and into the house, the girl peeped into the sitting-room and parlour,
and finding both empty, went on up the stairs. She paused to listen at
her mother's door; there was no sound from within, and Hildegarde hoped
that her mother was sleeping off the headache, which had made the
morning heavy for her. Kissing her hand to the door, she went on to her
own room, which always greeted her as a friend, no matter how many times
a day she entered it. She looked round at books and pictures with a
little sigh of contentment, and sank down for a moment in the low
rocking-chair. "Just to breathe, you know!" she said. "One must breathe
to live." Involuntarily her hand moved towards the low table close by,
on which lay a tempting pile of books. Just one chapter of "The Fortunes
of Nigel," while she was getting her breath?

"No," she said, replying to herself with severity, "nothing of the kind.
You can rest just as well while you are looking over the drawer. I am
surprised,--or rather, I wish I were surprised at you, Hilda Grahame.
You are a hard case!"

Exchanging a glance of mutual sympathy and understanding with Sir Walter
Scott, who looked down on her benignly from the wall, Hildegarde now
drew her chair up beside a tall chest of drawers, and proceeded to open
the lowest drawer, which was as deep and wide as the whole of some
modern bureaus. It was half filled with small objects, which she now
took out one by one, looking them over carefully before laying them
back. First came a small table-cover of heavy buff linen, beautifully
embroidered with nasturtiums in the brilliant natural colors. It was
really a thing of beauty, and the girl looked at it first with natural
pride, then went over it carefully, examining the workmanship of each
bud and blossom.

"It will pass muster!" she said, finally. "It is well done, if I do say
it; the Beloved Perfecter will be satisfied, I think."

This was for her mother, of course; and she laid it back, rolled
smoothly round a pasteboard tube, and covered with white tissue paper,
before she went on to another article. Next came a shawl, like an
elaborate collection of snowflakes that had flitted together, yet