More snow had fallen. She heard the sound of bells, and the soft swish of sleigh-runners passing swiftly by. The voices of her neighbours came to her, now and then, but never calling loud and joyous, as they were wont to do. Every sound was subdued; every one moved softly and spoke low, with the sick child constantly in their thoughts.
Guests came to Pumpkin House; long-invited guests, who could not well be put off. Hildegarde knew this, and knew that her friends loved her and the child no less because they were now forced to play the hosts, and to make pleasure for the holiday visitors. Was this the evening of the Flower Party? Her dress was hanging ready in the closet. Such a pretty dress! She was to be a wild rose, and the graceful pink petals curved over the skirt, and curled upward to form the bodice.
What a pity that some one could not wear it! She might send it over, in case some one of the guests had no costume ready. Bell was to be an apple-blossom; Gertrude, a lily. The twins would be splendid as Larkspur and Scarlet Runner. And would Roger—would he go in fancy dress? She could not imagine him doing anything of the kind, somehow. She thought of him in boating dress, or in his camp jersey and knickerbockers—or, as she saw him last, in evening dress, climbing over the snowy roofs—she shuddered, and laid her hand on Hugh's arm, to make sure that he was there. The child was safe, at any rate. He was not going to die. Hildegarde kept this thought resolutely away from her, and was only conscious of it as a dim horror, lurking in a corner of her brain. He would be better soon, perhaps in a day or two. It might even be that she would see Roger before he went back to the West,—for he would be going soon, no doubt. He would be sorry, she thought, to go without seeing her. But she had his gift; he had sent it to her the day after Christmas. She put her hand to her throat, to make sure it was there—the brooch that he had made himself for her, digging the gold, refining, hammering, fashioning it, all with his own hands. She would never wear any other brooch! Dear old Jack, too. He was missing her from his vacation, she knew. Her mother said that he and Bell were practising together every day, and that all the Merryweathers were delighted with him. He and the twins were becoming fast friends. But they all missed her. They all said that there was no luck about any of the houses, with Hildegarde awa'. The tears came to the girl's eyes. Everybody was so good to her, so kind, so loving!
Hugh moved uneasily, and she bent over him; his lips moved. "Play!" said the child.
"Dear!" said Hildegarde, softly. "My laddie! Do you want something?"
Hugh did not open his eyes, but a smile, or the shadow of a smile, hovered about his lips for an instant.
"Play—Jack—play!" he whispered.
"Yes, dear! He shall come. We will send for him; rest now, my boy, quietly!"
But now, seeing her mother at the door, Hildegarde stole softly to her, and told of the whispered words. "Will you ask the doctor? He might—it might—do him good, if he is thinking about it? You will see what is best, dear!"
Mrs. Grahame nodded, and went away. An hour passed, as all the others passed. Then Hildegarde heard steps on the veranda; the door opened and closed quietly; the next moment the voice of the violin came stealing through the house. Ah! what was it? Were angels singing the child to sleep? Schubert's Cradle Song; there is no sweeter melody on earth, and many times had Jack played little Hugh to sleep with it, in the days before he went abroad. Hildegarde watched the child intently. At the first note of the music he stirred, and opened and closed his hands, which lay listless on the counterpane. Then, as the song flowed on, so low, so tender, it seemed the voice of a spirit, or of some wandering wind, caught and trained to melody; the brows which had been knitted, as if in an effort to think, relaxed, a smile came to the sweet lips and settled there happily.