Hilda began to feel very queerly. She was so used to praise and petting, that the plain speeches she had heard had almost taken her breath away, true though they were. Cricket was always being lectured, because she was careless and disorderly, and heedless and forgetful, and Hilda had always felt superior. But was she really horrid? was she hateful? was she selfish? was she a sneak?
“Mamma doesn’t think so, anyway,” she said, with a little sob. But it was that very morning, when she asked permission to go and see Cricket, that her mother had hesitated, and said,—
“I thought perhaps you would be willing to stay at home this morning, darling. My head aches badly, and poor, sick grandmamma says she has scarcely seen her little girl this week.”
But Hilda looked so abused that her mother hastened to add,—
“Never mind, dear, go on and have a good time, but I would like you to come home to lunch;” and the little girl had neglected her mother’s words, as of no importance.
It was a very sober, subdued Hilda, who, much later, slipped quietly into the house.
Her mother had been in bed all day, with one of her worst headaches, the maid said, and she herself had been sitting with grandmamma, and reading to her, for the old lady felt very lonely. Hilda winced as she thought of that hard, rasping voice reading to an invalid.
Mrs. Mason heard her little girl’s voice and spoke to her, and Hilda crept quietly into her mother’s room. She knew, well enough, that her little soft fingers had magic power to drive away mamma’s nervous headaches, but usually it was “such a bother” to sit in the darkened room, that often, as she now guiltily remembered, she had slipped away, when she knew mamma had a headache, lest she should be asked to do it. Oh, she was a selfish, selfish Hilda!
That night, when her head was better, mamma and Hilda had a long talk. The whole story came out, and Hilda confessed that she believed that she was the horridest, selfishest girl in the whole town. And her mother’s tears fell quietly and fast, as she realized, for the first time, how she had been spoiling her darling. Because her little daughter was dainty and orderly, and sweet and polite, she had been ruining her with too much praise, and letting her grow up selfish and inconsiderate.
“We will both begin again, my little girl,” she said, holding Hilda close. “And to begin with, do you know you ought to tell Cricket you are sorry?”