Hilda's Mascot: A Tale of "Maryland, My Maryland"

by Mary E. Ireland

CHAPTER VIII—LETTERS WHICH BRING A TRIAL TO HILDA

Not only the village of Dorton, but the whole country around it rejoiced that Mr. Valentine Courtney was the owner of “My Lady’s Manor,” and that it was again occupied and one of the hospitable homes of the neighborhood.

His first purchase was a pair of handsome horses, a comfortable carriage and a phaeton.

For coachman he wished a middle-aged, unmarried man, for whom he advertised, and among the many who responded was one he was satisfied to engage. This man was Sandy MacQuoid, a Scotchman who bore testimonials from two Edinburgh families as to his exemplary character and capability.

Sandy was tall, thin and pale, quiet in manner and scrupulously neat in attire, which was always black and perfect in fit.

With congratulations of his own good fortune, Mr. Courtney brought him to “My Lady’s Manor” and the years which followed proved Sandy’s testimonials correct; he vied in fidelity with the Irish housekeeper and the African cook.

Sandy stipulated but for one favor after the matter of salary was agreed upon, and that was that he might bring a parrot, which had been trained to say many things, and his Scotch bagpipes.

Mr. Courtney granted both requests with pleasure for he was partial to pets and fond of music; moreover the place would be rendered more attractive to his nephews and their friends, and to Hilda.

With the cordial assent of Mrs. Merryman, Hilda had availed herself of the invitation of Mr. Courtney to read in his library, and almost every afternoon on her way from school she passed an hour or more in the home-like room.

Although Mrs. Flynn and Chloe saw but little of her during that hour, they were glad to know she was there; the day always seemed brighter when she passed on the way to the library, halting to chat a moment with them.

As a rule, she was away by the time that Mr. Courtney returned from the city, but it was a pleasure to him to hear that she had been there.

At his request Mrs. Flynn frequently invited Hilda and her schoolmates to tea, which request was all the more heartily appreciated by her that Norah always came and spent the evening in order to see Hilda safely home.

It was also an understood thing that when Rev. Carl and Mrs. Courtney came to take tea at “My Lady’s Manor” Hilda should be invited, and she always accepted the invitation. Thus in time she looked upon the villa as a second home, as when a child in the cottage of her Aunt Ashley she passed so much time there with Anna Ashburton.

Happy summers passed, and winters equally pleasant, and Hilda was growing into healthy, symmetrical and beautiful young womanhood, the cultivation of her fine mind keeping pace with her growth.

Three days in each week Mr. Courtney went to the city in his carriage and Sandy, after leaving him at his office, purchased supplies for the household.

One day, after completing this, he was driving to the hotel where the horses were cared for, when he had the unexpected pleasure of meeting an old friend who had recently arrived from “the land of the thistle.”

Sandy invited him to take luncheon with him, after which they repaired to the lodgings of his friend where he was presented with a young Scotch terrier of great intelligence.

Sandy’s pleasure in the gift was enhanced by that of Mr. Courtney, and when Roy and Cecil came over that evening they could scarcely tear themselves away in time to study their next day’s lessons, so charmed were they with the terrier.

The parrot was kept on the porch, as a rule, and in order to hear its quaint speeches one had to go there, but the terrier was here, there and everywhere; and Hilda was almost tempted at times to defer her reading in the library to be amused by the antics of the canine foreigner.

Seeing her fondness for the terrier, Chloe was loth to complain of it, but could not at times refrain when his mischief grew too pronounced.

“That pup is mighty mischievous, honey,” she said one afternoon upon recovering her breath after chasing the terrier to get her clean turban which he had captured. “You don’t know the tricks that terrier can play. When the door-bell rings and I go to let company in, I’m never sartin that a pile of bones or ol’ shoes won’t fall in when I open the door.”

“I wonder why he likes best to put them at the front door when there are so many doors to the house?” laughed Hilda.

“Jes’ to be as tricky as ever he kin, honey, and where he finds the ol’ shoes is the riddle I can’t guess. I never sees none layin’ around, and I burns all he fotches in.”

“But he is so funny, Chloe, and we all love him so!”

“I’m not gwine to say nothin’ agin him, honey, and haven’t said nothin’, even when he tore up my best turban that Mis’ Emma done give me. Mrs. Flynn feeds him. She puts a piece of oilcloth on the floor by the table and gives the terrier scraps while she and Mr. Sandy is eatin’.”

One afternoon Mrs. Courtney, Mrs. Merryman and Hilda went to take tea at “My Lady’s Manor,” a charming walk across the fields that lovely day, and Hilda was the happiest of the happy.

The afternoon passed speedily and pleasantly, and Hilda, who had been part of the time in the library, was first to see the carriage containing Mr. Courtney and Sandy stop at the side gate. She ran joyously to announce his arrival to Mrs. Courtney, then to the kitchen to tell Chloe, then out to the gate to meet him.

“My home-coming is always more pleasant when Hilda is here to welcome me,” he said cordially as he clasped her dimpled hand; “something told me that you would meet me at the gate.”

Hilda flushed with pleasure, and, clinging to his hand, she went with him to the parlor, where he welcomed the other guests, then went to his dressing room, the terrier flying up the steps in advance of him, and watching every movement with alert, bright eyes until he descended.

Hilda’s request to arrange the bouquet for the center of the table was cheerfully granted by Mrs. Flynn, and with scissors in hand she went to the garden, the terrier following in an ecstasy of delight and playing about her until he saw Archie coming through the gate, his coat upon his arm, for the evening was warm.

The terrier ran to meet him, danced around him and barked, but Archie paid no attention to him, and walking slowly up he placed his coat on the balustrade of the back porch, then went to his favorite seat in the kitchen, and was soon asleep, worn out with his constant walking.

Hilda, in the meantime, had arranged her roses in a tall vase and placed them upon the table; then the tea-bell rang and Mr. Courtney and his guests gathered about it, and cheerful conversation enlivened the meal.

When it was finished they went to the library, where later, Sandy, tall, grave and reserved, joined them at Mr. Courtney’s request to give them Scotch airs upon the bagpipes.

It seemed to Hilda, seated near Mr. Courtney, that Sandy’s music never sounded so mournfully sweet as upon that evening, the last time she was to hear it for many days. For destiny was quietly closing the doors of “My Lady’s Manor” upon her, and opening those of a distant farmhouse, the existence of which she had never known.

In the pauses of the music the occupants of the library heard a scampering and a scuffling upon the porch, mingled with sharp, quick barks, and the dragging of something to and fro.

Mr. Courtney arose and was about to pass from the room to see what occasioned the sounds, when through the open door rushed the terrier, bearing in his mouth two letters which he dropped upon the floor and then ran out.

“Can’t find no mo’ ol’ shoes so must go and tear up the coat that Marse Archie sot so much store by,” said Chloe, as she captured both coat and the terrier as he was again scampering into the library. “I done heerd that scampering and knowed that tarrier was up to sumpin’, and he’s done tore out the linin’ of that good coat and the cover off a letter.”

“Did he get the letters out of the coat?” asked Mr. Courtney, as Hilda picked them from the floor.

“I ’spect so, sir. There weren’t no letters on the piazzy ’till the tarrier done tore the coat.”

“This one is signed ‘Janette Ashley’,” said Hilda, becoming very pale, “and is addressed to ‘My Dear Sister Sarah.’ I remember that Aunt Ashley’s first name was Janette,” she added, turning to Mrs. Merryman and putting the letter in her hand.

“It was, Hilda, and her sister’s name was Sarah Warfield. Shall I read it aloud?”

The girl nodded; she could not trust her voice to speak.

“These must be the letters of which Diana Strong spoke the evening of my reception,” remarked Mrs. Merryman when she finished reading. “The dates prove that they were written the week of Mrs. Ashley’s death.”

“My husband wrote this one,” said Mrs. Courtney, to whom Mrs. Merryman had passed the letters. “I recognize the writing; besides, I remember hearing him say at the time that he had written a letter for Mrs. Ashley to her sister in Ohio. He wrote it at the cottage and I remember his saying that Mrs. Ashley asked Diana to give him her pen from the writing desk. He said it was the handsomest he had ever seen, a gold pen, the handle also gold, and set with lines of rubies. He commented upon the beauty of it, and Mrs. Ashley said her father gave it to her upon her fifteenth birthday, and she had never used any other since.”

“But where have the letters been all this time?” said Mrs. Merryman.

“Without doubt in the pocket of the coat of which the terrier has torn the lining,” said Mr. Courtney, whose handsome face had grown pale and sad since the reading of the letters.

“Poor Mrs. Warfield never received them and we have censured her for not replying,” continued Mrs. Merryman.

“But one would suppose that not receiving any letter from her sister, she would write to know the reason for her silence,” suggested Mr. Courtney.

“She may have done so, but I never heard of it. Diana said that she asked the postmaster to forward a newspaper containing a notice of Mrs. Ashley’s death.”

“What should be done with the letters?” asked Mrs. Courtney. “Ought they not be forwarded to Mrs. Warfield?”

Hilda sat pale and silent, glancing anxiously from one to another, and for a time no one spoke.

“It appears to be the just, therefore the right thing, to do,” commented Mrs. Merryman.

“As my husband wrote one of the letters, if you all agree to it, I will take them home and ask him to forward them to Mrs. Warfield. Wouldn’t that be best, my love?” asked Mrs. Courtney, turning to Hilda.

“Oh, she may think I ought to go to her! How can I leave you all?” exclaimed the girl.

Tears filled the eyes of the elder ladies, and Mr. Courtney arose and left the room.

“But we would not be acting justly to the living or the dead by withholding them,” interposed Mrs. Courtney.

“No, it would not be right, they must be sent,” sobbed Hilda.

“The question with me is, how letters written so long ago came to be in Archie’s coat,” said Mrs. Merryman. “I know that he is, in his sad, preoccupied way, searching for something in his pitiable wanderings, and has his pockets at times filled with trifles, but these letters, while somewhat stained and yellow, are not the least worn, so could not have been carried long in his pocket.”

“It will always be a mystery, I think, unless he is willing to tell us where he found them.”

“He was at our house over night,” said Mrs. Merryman reflectively. “I wonder, if asked, whether he could tell where he got them. Will you ask him, Hilda?”

She obeyed immediately, but as they supposed, he could not give the least information.

“Diana incidentally mentioned that she gave the letters to Perry to mail. It may be that he is the one to blame for their not being received by Mrs. Warfield. I will ask him as soon as I get home,” continued Mrs. Merryman.

“But what could be his object, and where has he kept them all these years without your knowledge?”

“I have not the least idea. He has a small trunk, but it is never locked, nor has he ever given the least evidence that he is keeping anything hidden.”

Hilda arose and left the library, and as she stepped into the hall she heard footsteps of someone passing to and fro upon the long piazza. It was Mr. Courtney, and as she appeared in the door-way he halted and held out his hand to her. She glided swiftly to him and he clasped her hand and placed it within his arm, and silently they walked back and forth.

The ladies prepared for their return home, and Mrs. Merryman went to apprise Hilda, who withdrew her hand to follow. For one brief moment Mr. Courtney clasped her in his arms, for one brief moment she sobbed upon his breast, then she rejoined the others. They bade the master of “My Lady’s Manor” good-night at his gate and left him to his sad forebodings.

When Mrs. Merryman reached home she questioned Perry, whereupon he made a full confession, glad to be relieved of the secret which had so long oppressed him.

Diana Strong, during Mrs. Ashley’s illness, had given him two letters to mail at the Dorton postoffice. He had opened them out of mere curiosity, as he earnestly alleged, and they had been a millstone about his neck. Terror of the law had made him afraid to have them found in his possession, and what conscience he had, refused to let him destroy them. He had taken them to the woods and placed them in the hollow of a tree too far up for them to be seen from the ground, and hearing Mr. Merryman say that the tree was to be felled, he was compelled to remove the letters.

The visit of Archie to the Merryman home had left an avenue of escape, and he watched his opportunity when the wanderer was about to depart to slip them in the pocket of his coat; and the old man went to “My Lady’s Manor,” unconscious that he was bearing a message that would take Hilda from the home where he had placed her.

Perry was anxious to do all he could to atone, and as a commencement was willing to leave a game of ball to carry a note from Mrs. Merryman to “Friedenheim,” that Rev. Carl might know the whole story before writing that evening to Mrs. Warfield, enclosing the letters.

Mrs. Warfield was one who never dallied over a known duty. Her answer came by return mail, and had Hilda been destitute of a home, or situated less happily than she was, the letter would have given her unmingled satisfaction. As it was, it brought to her heart and to that of another a chill of bitter disappointment.

Mrs. Warfield wrote that she had received the paper containing the notice of Mrs. Ashley’s death while ill from the effect of the railway accident, and the nervous terror resulting from it had kept her from traveling since. She explained that Mrs. Lacy having gone to France to reside, she had no one to communicate with, and had written to the postmaster at Dorton asking the name of any friend of Mrs. Ashley whom she could address. He replied, but had taken so little interest in the matter that he sent the name of Mrs. Reginald Farnsworth, of San Francisco.

Mrs. Warfield wrote immediately, and after several weeks she received a letter saying that Mrs. Farnsworth was traveling in Europe, but the letter had been forwarded by the postmaster in response to Mrs. Warfield’s request.

She never received a reply, and still hoped the time would come when she could visit Dorton and learn for herself what she had used all means in her power to know through others. She added that she was rejoiced to know that Mrs. Ashley had intrusted Hilda to her care, and so far as lay in her power the trust should be faithfully cherished.

The letter concluded by saying that her eldest son would visit Philadelphia the following week, and would take great pleasure in going to Dorton to accompany Hilda to the home that would welcome her gladly.

The evening of the day that this letter was received found Mr. Valentine Courtney in consultation with his sister, and the next morning that lady visited Mrs. Merryman, going early that she might see Hilda before she set out for school.

Mrs. Courtney having—as she reminded Mrs. Merryman—no daughter of her own, asked as a favor that she be allowed to exercise her taste in providing an outfit for Hilda which might not be convenient to obtain in her new home.

Mrs. Merryman, taking the offer in the spirit it was made, gave glad consent, and it was decided that Hilda should accompany Mrs. Courtney to Baltimore that morning upon a shopping expedition.

This was a charming surprise to Hilda. She was ready by the time Mrs. Courtney and Mrs. Merryman had discussed the needs of the prospective young traveler, and it seemed like a fairy story that instead of walking to school, she was spinning along the pleasant road between Dorton and Baltimore in a roomy, comfortable carriage behind a pair of fine bay horses, and with the charming companionship of Mrs. Courtney.

Shopping proved to be the most attractive of amusements as they drove from one business house to another, and to the inexperienced girl Mrs. Courtney’s purse seemed inexhaustible.

“One article that Mrs. Merryman and I agreed upon as being indispensable is a large trunk,” Mrs. Courtney remarked as they reached the city. “We will buy it the first article, and all the other purchases can be taken home in it.”

Hilda was charmed with the selection made. It was handsome, substantial and commodious, with many little compartments dear to the heart of the feminine traveler.

The buying of dress goods came next, and Hilda was in her element, and Mrs. Courtney was surprised at the judgment she evinced in selecting what was suitable to her age and appearance.

Wraps, hats, gloves, ruffles, and all the articles which complete a girl’s wardrobe were rapidly filling the trunk which Mose had strapped on the rack on the back of the carriage.

“Now, dear Hilda, I have a favor to ask of you, and that is to sit for your picture. Mrs. Merryman wishes one, I should like to have one, and brother Valentine would be pleased to have you present one to him.”

“And one for Miss Jerusha Flint,” supplemented Hilda, laughingly.

“Of course,” assented Mrs. Courtney, amused at the suggestion. “But first we will take luncheon at the ladies’ restaurant where I always go upon these shopping tours, then to the picture gallery, then to a dressmaker’s to be fitted, and I think we will feel that we have made very good use of our time.”

“But, dear Mrs. Courtney, would it not be better to wait for the photograph until one of these new dresses is made?”

“No, dear, we prefer seeing you in the pink cashmere. It is the same you wore when last at ‘My Lady’s Manor,’ and is very becoming. We will go now and have a good luncheon which will refresh us for our afternoon’s shopping.”

The gallery was visited and the sweet face of Hilda imaged for the friends she was soon to leave, the dresses fitted, and she supposed all they had come to do was accomplished.

“We have had a pleasant day together, Hilda,” said her friend, “and I wish to give you a remembrance of it and of me—something useful as well as ornamental. Would you like a watch?”

No need to wait for an answer; the beaming eyes, smiling lips and rosy tint which rose to the fair face were more expressive than words, and Mrs. Courtney led the way to a jeweler’s where she again had occasion to admire the innate refinement and courtesy of Hilda. What the donor selected was her choice, and her pleasure was enhanced and the value of the gift increased by the inscription which Mrs. Courtney requested should be engraved on the inner side of the case: “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want.”

It was left with the jeweler to be brought out to “Friedenheim” by Mr. Courtney. Then they turned their faces homeward, and thus ended this red letter day in the life of Hilda.

It had always been a foregone conclusion that anything in which Mrs. Courtney took part proved to be a success; therefore the pretty new gowns, the watch and the cabinet pictures reached “Friedenheim” in good time, and were satisfactory in every respect.

Mrs. Warfield’s son Paul came at the appointed time and was, in the eyes of Mr. Valentine Courtney—who, with his sister, called that evening to see him and bid good-bye to Hilda—a young Apollo. In the opinion of the others—Hilda not excepted—he was a tall, finely formed young man, with good features, dark hair and eyes and a firm mouth and chin.

He bore well his part in the after-supper conversation, and Hilda had a feeling of pride that her Aunt Ashley’s nephew was so worthy the attention of her Dorton friends, while he was more than pleased with them all.

“He is young, handsome, cultured, well educated and agreeable,” thought Mr. Courtney. “There is every reason for Hilda to become attached to him now that they will be under the same roof.”

Obeying the request of Mrs. Courtney, and her own inclination, Hilda selected the most perfect of the pictures of herself to give to Mr. Courtney, and had gone to her room early in the evening and had brought it down to the parlor to have it in readiness to give when he arose to leave.

It was given and accepted, farewells were said, and the Courtneys went to their homes; then Hilda, who had borne herself bravely during the evening, bade Mr. and Mrs. Merryman and Paul good-night and went to her room, and from the window looked with tear-dimmed eyes upon “My Lady’s Manor.”

She watched the light gleaming in the library where she knew that Mr. Courtney was sitting alone, and when at a late hour it disappeared she retired and wept until slumber closed her eyes.

The next morning was bright and beautiful, and, refreshed by sleep, and possessing the hope and buoyancy of youth when not crushed out by affliction or cruelty, Hilda arose and dressed for her journey in the pretty new traveling dress, which, with hat and gloves, she had placed in readiness before retiring.

Descending to breakfast, the first object that met her gaze was a bouquet of roses which she knew at a glance had come from Mr. Courtney. She had been accustomed to seeing flowers all her life, but these seemed the sweetest and loveliest she had ever known. She examined each bud and blossom, and admired anew the donor’s name and compliments upon the card.

Tears were in Mrs. Merryman’s eyes, and tender-hearted Norah wept, when Hilda, equipped for the journey, stood, bouquet in hand, ready to go to the carriage which Perry brought to the gate.

“Good-bye, dear Aunt Merryman!” she said, putting an arm around that faithful friend as they stood upon the piazza.

“Good-bye, dear Hilda!” responded the lady as she pressed kisses upon the lips and the fair brow of the girl. “We shall miss you; do not forget us.”

“How can I forget, when I have found mother and father in you and Uncle Merryman?”

“And, Hilda,” continued Mrs. Merryman in a low tone, and noticing that Mr. Merryman and Paul were engaged in parting words—“never, never let your Aunt Ashley’s prayer grow dim in your memory.”

“No, dear Aunt Merryman, I will always look upon it as my guide through life, and with it will associate you who have tenderly kept it in my remembrance; and see,” she added with a sudden flush of color to her cheeks, “it is being answered, in part, at least, for my home and that of Aunt Sarah Warfield will be one and the same.”

They all walked down the path to the waiting carriage, Mr. Merryman helped her in and bade her good-bye; then with a few last words they were on their way to the Dorton station while Mr. and Mrs. Merryman returned slowly to the house feeling that something sweet and pleasant had been removed from their home and lives, never again to be restored.

In a few minutes the travelers reached Baltimore, where the train halted, and to Hilda’s surprise and pleasure Mr. Valentine Courtney appeared at the window by which she was seated, his handsome face growing brighter when he saw his roses in her hand.

“They are lovely; I treasure them!” she said, touching them with her lips.

“And this, also, I hope,” he said, putting a small package in her hand.

“I know I shall,” she answered, flushing with surprise and anticipation, giving him a smile and glance which lingered long in his memory. She waved her hand in farewell, and they were gone. And he returned to his office, and in the evening to “My Lady’s Manor,” feeling more desolate than he had ever been in his life.

The world in which he had lived since taking possession of his home was not, as it had been, the matter-of-fact world of business alone. It was a new world, rosy with sweet companionship and hope; morning sunshine which had now given place to evening clouds and coming darkness.

He tried to think that he was no more desolate than before he had known Hilda, but his reasonings brought no comfort. He was not—as when Anna was taken from him—reconciled to the lot which he had in Christian faith looked upon as not only out of his power to prevent, but as something which God willed, and it was therefore his Christian duty to be submissive.

Had Hilda been a few years older, Paul Warfield should not have taken her away before he had made known his attachment. He had not done this, believing it not honorable to fetter her with a promise before she had seen anything of the world. Now she was gone, and he was grieved that he had given her no hint of his feelings. He realized that he had been unjust to himself and to her.

As soon as possible after they were again on their way, Hilda untied the packet and brought to view a crimson velvet case in which was a fine picture of Mr. Courtney.

“Oh, it is so like him, so exactly like him!” she exclaimed in delight, as Paul bent his stately head to look upon it. “Isn’t he the very handsomest man you ever saw?”

“He is very elegant looking, indeed, Cousin Hilda,” responded Paul heartily.

“And just as good as he is handsome! He is so kind to everybody and urges poor Archie, who saved my life, to make his home at ‘My Lady’s Manor,’ and pass his days in rest and comfort; but Archie will stay only for a night, preferring to wander about.”

“He is handsome and of noble presence, Cousin Hilda,” remarked Paul as he saw her looking again upon the picture, “but I cannot agree with you that he is the handsomest man I ever saw, and he is somewhat gray.”

“Only a little upon the temples,” said Hilda eagerly. “Some persons turn gray early.”

“Wait until you have seen my brother Fred,” said Paul, a little confusedly. “Do not think me boastful, Cousin Hilda, but all agree that Fred is very handsome, and he is young.”

“I suppose he looks like you,” said Hilda, in all sincerity.

“Girls never see me when Fred is around. He seems to know exactly what to say to interest them.”

“And ‘My Lady’s Manor’ is such a lovely place,” resumed Hilda. “I wish you could have stayed even one day longer and visited there and at ‘Friedenheim.’ They are such beautiful places, and my friends are all so kind.”

“They are indeed charming people. I was glad to meet them and would have enjoyed remaining, but, little cousin, I have something to tell you. Shall it be now?”

“Yes, now,” echoed the girl eagerly.

“I told your Dorton friends that we would remain in Philadelphia until to-morrow with Mr. and Mrs. De Cormis, old friends of my father. A niece of Mr. De Cormis from Woodmont, a village near my home in Ohio, is visiting there, and I am glad to have you become acquainted.”

“Is she a dear friend of yours?”

“Yes, the dearest.”

“Did she come to Philadelphia with you?”

“No, she has been there several weeks. She has many friends there to visit, for she lived there all her life until the past four years, when she and her father came to Woodmont. Her father, Rev. Horace De Cormis, is pastor of our church and is one of the best of men.”

“Will she go back to Ohio with us?”

“No, her visit is not yet completed. Her uncle, Mr. Robert De Cormis, and his family wish her to remain the winter with them, but she is a devoted daughter and is not willing to leave her father longer than a fortnight more. You may know that we were glad to meet again.”

“You love each other, then?”

“Oh, little cousin, when you see her you will understand how impossible it would be not to love her! If nothing prevents, we expect to be married before another autumn.”

“I am glad, Cousin Paul, and hope you will be very happy.”

“Thank you, cousin; I am sure you wish it. I cannot fail being happy with Lura De Cormis.”

“What style of person is she, Cousin Paul?”

“She is faultlessly fair, has coal black hair and brilliant black eyes, lips like coral, perfect teeth, and her hands are small, white, and beautifully formed.”

“She must be beautiful,” commented Hilda. “I hope she will love me. Is it easy to make her acquaintance?”

“She is considered very reserved, but she is interested in you. I am sure you cannot help being congenial friends.”

Paul’s fiancée was out when the travelers arrived at the handsome home of Mr. Robert De Cormis.

Mrs. De Cormis received them cordially and conducted Hilda to the pretty apartment she was to occupy, then left her that she might make her toilet for dinner.

Hilda took girlish delight in arraying herself in one of the new gowns, which fitted her lithe figure perfectly and was charmingly becoming.

She heard the door-bell ring, and heard the sound of cheery voices and descended to the parlor to meet Miss Lura De Cormis. Paul met her at the door and led her to the alcove window where the young lady stood, so absorbed in reading a letter just received from her father that she did not hear Hilda’s step upon the soft carpet.

The introduction was given and when Hilda looked upon the face of the future Mrs. Paul Warfield she saw a younger and fairer, but with those exceptions, a living image of Jerusha Flint.