nt'nance, an' ye kem with Farmer Hartley; that's reference enough."
She paused and reflected, while Hildegarde, putting the finishing
touches to the pretty hat, wondered what was coming. "I wasn't
calc'latin' to hire help this summer," continued the milliner; "but
you're so handy, and yer ma could give ye idees from time to time. So if
ye'd like a job, I d' 'no' but I'd like to hire ye."

The heiress of all the Grahams wanted to laugh at this naive proposal,
but good feeling and good manners alike forbade. She thanked Miss Bean
for her kind offer, and explained that she was only spending her school
vacation at Hartley Farm; that her time was fully occupied, etc., etc.

The little milliner looked so disappointed that Hilda was seized with a
royal impulse, and offered to "go over" the hats in the window while she
waited for Farmer Hartley, and freshen them up a bit.

"Well, I wish't ye would!" said poor Miss Bean. "Fact is, I ain't done
so well as I c'd wish this season. Folks is dretful 'fraid o' buyin' new
things nowadays."

Then followed a series of small confidences on the hair-cloth sofa,
while Hilda's fingers flew about the forlorn hats and bonnets, changing
a ribbon here and a flower there, patting and poking, and producing
really marvellous results. Another tale of patient labor, suffering,
privation. An invalid mother and an "innocent" brother for this frail
little woman to support. Doctors' bills and hard times, and stingy
patrons who were "as 'fraid of a dollar-bill as if 'twas the small-pox."
Hilda's eyes filled with tears of sympathy, and one great drop fell on
the green satin hat, but was instantly covered by the wreath of ivy
which was replacing the staring cock's feathers.

"Wal, I declare to gracious!" exclaimed Miss Bean. "You'd never know
that for the same hat, now, would ye? I thought 'twas han'some before,
but it's enough site han'somer now. I shouldn' wonder a mite if Mis'
Peasley bought that hat now. She's been kind o' hankerin' arter it, the
last two or three times she was in here; but every time she tried it on,
she'd say No, 'twas too showy, she guessed. Wal, I do say, you make a
gret mistake not goin' into the trade, for you're born to it, that's
plain. When a pusson's born to a thing, he's thrown away, you may say,
on anything else. What _was_ you thinkin'--"

But at this moment came a cheery call of "Huldy! Huldy!" and Hildegarde,
cutting short the little woman's profuse thanks and invita