"You won't get them that way, Gwen," cried Kate, as her sister threw a rake handle at the top of the tree, and it came rattling down through the branches.
"You are far more likely to break my head," said Hilda, from the hammock, "and you shake me dreadfully. You might have a little respect for my feelings."
"Nonsense; you are so lazy, Hilda! If you were anything of a sister, you would come and help me."
"Thanks for the suggestion, dear," said Hilda, sweetly, "but I prefer remaining where I am." And she threw herself back upon the cushions with an air of indolent grace.
At all times Hilda had rather a languid air. Of slender form, below the middle height, with a colourless complexion, and features regular and delicately formed, she had a frail appearance beside her more robust-looking sisters; but, in truth, her health was as good as theirs. Mrs. Bland used to boast that her girls were never ill, thanks to the care with which she had followed the common sense rules for the rearing of his children laid down by her deceased husband, who had practised as a surgeon at Woodham. There was a dreamy, absent look in Hilda's large blue eyes, which some persons found interesting, and others quite the reverse. To the unimaginative it was a sleepy, stupid look; but the more discerning saw in it the sign of a thoughtful, reflective nature.
There was but the faintest resemblance between Hilda and Kate, who was eighteen months older. No one could be less dreamy or indolent than Kate, or, as she was more often called, Kitty. With black hair, keen dark eyes, and a warm brown complexion, now, at the end of the summer, deepened to a gipsy-like hue, she looked very much alive. Her form was sturdy, though trim, her features of a decided character, the nose of the Roman type, the chin well rounded and somewhat prominent, the mouth firm, though ready enough to break into smiles. She was the eldest of Mrs. Bland's family of four, and had passed her twenty-second birthday, but strangers often took her for younger than Hilda, there was so much of the child about Kitty still. Hilda was the quiet one of the family, fond of reading and dreaming. Kitty was seldom still. She seemed made for a country life, and was as happy in the rigours of winter as in the summer's prime. Riding, rowing, skating, there were few healthy exercises in which she did not excel. Of the liveliest temperament, she was a great talker and rather satirical, but happily her nature was too sound and warm for her satire to be tinged with malice or envy.
"I wish Charlie would come," she said presently, as she flitted to and fro amongst the flowers; "it chimed four ever so long ago. There, the quarter is striking now."
"Did you ever know Charlie come straight home from school?" asked Hilda, as she turned over the leaves of her Browning. "Why are you in such a hurry to see him?"
"Oh, you know! I am dying to hear about that new master. The arrival of a stranger at Woodham is such an event."
"Is there a new master?" asked Hilda, indifferently.