e
cheerfulness as she went through two chapters of the vapid,
semi-religious story. At length the cold, gray eyes closed; the stately
head nodded forward; Aunt Emily was asleep. Hildegarde read on for some
time, till she was sure that the slumber was deep and settled. Then she
sat for a moment looking at the old lady, and contrasting her face and
form, rigid even in sleep, with those of dear Cousin Wealthy Bond, who
always looked like the softest and most kissable elderly rose in her
afternoon nap. "Poor soul," she said, softly, as she slipped out of the
room to find Hobson. "So lonely, and so unloved and unloving! I can't
bear to hear Blanche and Violette speak of her,--I can hardly keep my
hands off them,--and yet--why exactly should they be fond of her? She is
not fond of them, or of anybody, I fear, unless it be Hobson."

* * * * *

The visit was paid, and Hildegarde took her way towards the Woman's
Exchange, with a beating heart. It beat happily, for she had enjoyed
the half-hour's talk with the kind cousin, an elderly woman, who seldom
moved from her sofa, but whose life was full of interest, and who was
the friend and confidante of all the young people in the neighbourhood.
She had heard with pleasure of the proposed plan, and had given
Hildegarde a note to the manager of the Exchange, whom she knew well;
had tasted a crumb of one of the cakes, and predicted a ready sale for
them. Moreover, and this was the best of all, she had talked so wisely
and kindly, and with such a note of the dear mother in her voice, that
Hildegarde's homesickness had all floated away, and she had decided that
it was not, after all, such a hardship to spend three days in New York
as she had thought it an hour ago.

As I said, she took her way towards the Exchange, carrying her neat
paper box carefully. As she went, she amused herself by building
castles, _a la_ Perrette. How many things she would buy with the money,
if she sold the cakes; and she should surely sell them. No one could
resist who once tasted them, and she had made several tiny ones for
samples; just a mouthful of "goody" in each.

Fine linen, several yards of it, and gold thread, and "Underwoods" in
green morocco,--that was really _almost_ a necessity, for Mamma's
birthday; and some pink chiffon to freshen up her silk waist,
and--and--here she was almost run over, and was shouted at and seized by
a policeman, and piloted gently to a place