"It isn't half lovely enough!" cried loyal Hildegarde. "Not half! You don't see the blue of her eyes, or her complexion, just like 'a warm white rose.' Oh! you would love her, Jack!"
"I—I rather think I do!" Jack confessed. "You might let me have the photograph, Hildegarde."
But this Hildegarde wholly refused to do. "I have something much more useful for you!" she said; and, running into the house, she brought out a handkerchief-case of linen, daintily embroidered, containing a dozen fine hemstitched handkerchiefs. "I hemstitched them myself," she said; "the peacock still spreads its tail, you observe. And—see! on one side of the case are forget-me-nots—that is my flower, you know; and on the other are roses. I take credit for putting the roses on top."
"Dear Hilda!" cried her cousin, giving her hand a hearty shake. "What a good fel—what a jolly girl you are! You ought," he added shyly, "to marry the best man in the world, and I hope you will."
"I mean to," said Hildegarde, laughing, with a happy light in her eyes.
Hildegarde had never seen her "fairy prince, with joyful eyes, and lighter-footed than the fox"; but she knew he would come in good time. She knew, too, very much what he was like,—a combination of Amyas Leigh, Sir Richard Grenville, Dundee, and Montrose, with a dash of the Cid, and a strong flavour of Bayard, the constancy of William the Silent, the kindness of Scott, and the eyes of Edwin Booth. Some day he would come, and find his maiden waiting for him. Meantime, it was so very delightful to have Jack fall in love with Rose. If—she thought, and on that "if" rose many a Spanish castle, fair and lofty, with glittering pinnacle and turret. But she had not the heart to tell Jack of the joyful news she had just received, dared not tell him of the letter in her pocket which said that this dearest Rose was coming soon, perhaps this very week, to make her a long, long visit. If she could only have come earlier!
But now Jack was taking his violin out of his box. "Where is your mother?" he said. "This is my own, this present for you both. It is 'Farewell to Braeside!'"
Hildegarde flew to call her mother, and met her just coming downstairs. "Jack has composed a farewell for us," she cried. "All for us, mamma! Come!"
Farewell! the words seemed to breathe through the lovely melody, as the lad played softly, sweetly, a touch of sadness underlying the whole. "Farewell! farewell! parting is pain, is pain, but Love heals the wound with a touch. Love flies over land and sea, bringing peace, peace, and good tidings and joy." Then the theme changed, and a strain of triumph, of exultation, made the air thrill with happiness, with proud delight. The girl and her mother exchanged glances. "This is his work, his life!" said their eyes. And the song soared high and higher, till one fine, exquisite note melted like a skylark into the blue; then sinking gently, gently, it flowed again into the notes of the farewell,—
"Parting is pain, is pain, but Love is immortal."