“Yes, you may look at his book all you like.” She even let Bella take it away with her to tide her over Sunday. But Mr. Galbraith’s “Winter among the Samoyedes” had small success with Miss Wayne. “They make me sick, those people! I can’t think how anybody likes hearing about their dirty ways,” and she even cast reflections on Jack for wasting his time over such “horrors.” However, there was another side to it. “What a relief it’ll be to him to be with us after the Samoyedes!”
“With us!” Hildegarde smiled inwardly.
Sitting by the rose-framed window one Saturday afternoon, talking as usual about Mr. Galbraith and how soon he might be expected back from the Pole, Bella suddenly burst out: “I’m tired to death of saying ‘Miss Mar.’ I do wish you’d let me call you ‘Hildegarde.’”
The big girl’s breath was taken away. For the gulf between twelve and sixteen is a thing hardly passable in that stronghold of class distinction, a girls’ school. It was rare, indeed, that one of Miss Mar’s ripe age stooped to help a little girl over a difficulty in her lessons. It required something of the missionary spirit to take such pity upon homesickness, as occasionally to give the afflicted one the great treat of visiting a big girl on Saturday afternoon—but really to go to the length proposed—
“I shan’t believe you really love me,” the little girl rushed on, “unless you say yes. Oh, do say yes. Everything depends on it. I’ll promise always to say ‘Miss Mar’ before people. But if you’ll let me call you Hildegarde when we’re alone, I’ll know you’re my best friend. And then I’ll tell you a secret. I’ll tell you two. Tremendous secrets!”
It was finally arranged.
“Now for the tremendous secrets,” said Hildegarde, smiling.
But Bella was portentously grave, even agitated. “Well,” she said, bracing herself, “my father’s an Englishman. Don’t tell anybody. Cross your heart and hope you may die if ever you tell the girls.”
“All right. Cross my heart and hope I may die. But how in the world—?”
“It isn’t my fault, you see. And I’m an American all right. I’ve always wanted to explain to you ever since you were so angelic about my fractions; it’s because my father’s an Englishman I have to eat milk pudding. Over there”—Bella flicked a small hand across the American continent and over the Atlantic deep, to indicate an inconsiderable island where the natives persist in strange customs—“over there they all do it. Of course, the minute I’m of age I shall insist on pie.” They discussed the matter in all its bearings.