"Yes," said Hildegarde, blushing. "I am so fond of 'Robinson Crusoe' myself, I thought you might like it too."
"Hain't seen that book for fifty year!" said the old man. "Sot up all last night readin' it. It'll be comp'ny to me all winter. And you—you took thought on me!—a young, fly-away, handsome gal, and old G'lushe Pennypacker! Wal, 't won't be forgot here, nor yet yender!"
He gave an upward jerk of his head, and then passed his rag of a handkerchief over his face again, and said he must be going. But he did not go till he had had a glass of milk, and half-a-dozen of Mrs. Brett's doughnuts, to strengthen him for his homeward walk.
All this came back to Hildegarde, as she stood on the piazza; and as she recalled the softened, friendly look in the old man's eyes as he bade her good-by, she said again to herself, "This is the happiest day of my life!" The next day would not be so happy, for Rose and Bubble were going,—one to her home at Hartley's Glen, the other to his school in New York; and in a fortnight she must herself be turning her face homeward.
How short the summer had been!—had there ever been such a flying season?—and yet she had done very little; she had only been happy, and enjoyed herself. Miss Wealthy, perhaps, could have told another story,—of kind deeds and words; of hours spent in reading aloud, in winding wools, in arranging flowers, in the thousand little helpfulnesses by which a girl can make herself beloved and necessary in a household. To the gentle, dreamy, delicate Rose, Hildegarde had really been the summer. Without this strong arm always round her, this strong sunny nature, helping, cheering, amusing, how could she have come out of the life-long habits of invalidism, and learned to face the world standing on both feet? She could not have done it, Rose felt; and with this feeling, she probably would not have done it.
But, as I said, Hildegarde knew nothing of this. She had been happy, that was all. And though she was going to her own beloved home, and to the parents who were the greater part of the world to her, still she would be sorry to leave this happiness even for a completer one.
But hark! was that the sound of wheels? Yes; they were coming.
"Cousin Wealthy!" cried the girl, running to the door. "Rose! Bubble! Martha! Mrs. Brett! Benny! Come out, all of you! The stage is here!"
Out they came, all running, all out of breath, save Miss Wealthy, who knew the exact number of steps that would bring her to the exact middle of the piazza, and took these steps with her usual gentle precision of movement. She had no sooner taken up the position which she felt to be the proper one for her, than round the corner came the Bywood stage,—a long, lumbering, ramshackle vehicle, in which sat Mrs. Murray, a kind-looking nurse, and the twelve convalescent children who were to have the first delights of the Country Home.
At sight of them Bubble began to wave his hat violently. "Hooray!" he shouted. "Three cheers for the young uns!"