Hildegarde's Harvest

by Laura Elizabeth Howe Richards

Hildegarde wondered what the Colonel would say to this; wondered also if there were any one else—but the thought dismissed itself unfinished.

Here they were now, in a pretty, homelike parlour, hung with rose-colour,—ah! Doctor Fowler always had the prettiest ideas!—waiting for their hostess. A light step on the stairs! As it came down, quickly and steadily, Hildegarde saw many pictures, all in a moment. First, a girl in a wheeled chair, pale and sweet-faced, saying quietly that she could not walk,—that she had not walked since she was three years old,—pointing out the beauty and convenience of her precious chair, in which she was a prisoner. Then, herself, Hildegarde Grahame, walking up and down the anteroom of the hospital, waiting in an agony of suspense for news; then her mother's face, and Doctor Flower behind her, both smiling, and the blessed words, "It is all right!"

The tears sprang to her eyes. Then came the vision of their two selves, herself and her friend, in their happy, happy holiday summer at Cousin Wealthy Bond's; the gradual recovery, the roses coming in the pale cheeks, the step, growing ever firmer, more elastic. Then—but there was time for no more. Here she was at the door, Rose Flower, no longer a cripple, no longer even an invalid, but the happy wife of one of the best men in the world.

Rose's cry of surprise was very different from the clarion shout with which Helena Desmond had greeted her friend. It was soft and low,—a note like that of a bird coming home to its nest. "Hilda! my Hilda! oh, happy, happy day!"

The two girls (for Rose was a girl still, if she was a married woman!) held each other close for a little, without a word; the words did not come, nor was there need of them; each knew the other's heart was full of love that had had steady life and growth for five years. "My dear!" they said; and then again, "My dear!" and that was all.

But a few minutes later, when all four were seated in a circle, the girls hand in hand, the old people looking from one to the other with eyes of delight, the words came fast enough.

Rose had to tell of her summer abroad, of all the new worlds that had opened before the country-bred girl,—worlds of which she had dreamed all her life, which she had never thought to see with her bodily eyes. Then Hildegarde must tell of her summer, all the wonders of the camp, the new friends, grown so dear in so short a time; of Hugh and the Colonel, and all the delights of Braeside and Roseholme; and then both girls must hear all about affairs at Hartley's Glen, from the greatest to the least.

"Oh, Nurse Lucy, is the old yellow hen still alive—Mrs. Whittaker, I mean? Surely you know the hen we always called Mrs. Whittaker. She used to tell us her name whenever she laid an egg. And the cats! How are the dear cats? Do you think Camaralzaman remembers me, Nurse Lucy? And do you try to say his whole name once in a while, so that he will not forget it? And how are all the people in the village? How is Miss Bean? Does she still trim hats?— Oh, Rose, do you remember the funny hats? There was a green satin one, the first time I went there—my dear! she wanted me to buy it! But she was so good, and kind, and nice! Everybody in the village is nice!"

"Hilda, do you remember when Bubble sprained his ankle, and the letter he wrote you? Oh, such a funny letter, wasn't it?"

"Remember it? I have it in one of my most precious portfolios! But, oh, Nurse Lucy, you haven't told us a word about the cows. Dear cows! How are they all?"