"And now," said the good Colonel, "is it not time for some games, Hilda, or something of the kind? Command me, young people. Shall I be blind man, at your service?"
It was a pleasant sight to see the Colonel, a silk handkerchief tied over his eyes, chasing the young folks hither and thither; pulled this way, twitched that, but always beaming under his bandage, and shouting with merriment. It was a pleasanter sight, later in the evening, to see him leading out Hildegarde for a quadrille, and taking his place at the head of the figure with stately, old-fashioned grace. Mrs. Grahame, turning round a moment from her place at the piano, saw his fine face aglow with pleasure, and felt a corresponding warmth at her own heart. She thought of the gloomy, solitary man he had been a year ago, living alone with his servants, scarcely seeing or speaking to a soul outside his own grounds. And who shall blame the mother for saying in her heart, with a little thrill of pride, "It was my child who helped him, who brought the sunshine into this good man's life. It was my Hildegarde!"
CHAPTER VI.
ANOTHER TEA-PARTY.
It was the very day after the great affair at Roseholme that Hildegarde had her own tea-party; in fact, it had been planned for the birthday itself, and had only been postponed when Colonel Ferrers made known his kind wish. This was a piazza party. The broad, out-door room was hung with roses,—some of the very garlands which had graced the dark walls of Roseholme the night before; but here they were twined in and out of the vines which grew on all sides of the piazza, screening it from outside view, and making it truly a bower and a retreat. The guests had been asked to come at five o'clock, but it was not more than three when Hildegarde, coming to the door by chance, saw two or three little figures hanging about the gate, gazing wistfully in. At sight of her, their heads went down and their fingers went into their mouths; they studied the ground, and appeared to know neither where they were, nor why they had come.
"Euleta!" exclaimed Hildegarde; "is that you, child? and Minnie and Katie, too. Why, you are here in good time, aren't you?"
She ran down and took the children by the hand, and led them up to the piazza. "I am very glad to see you, chicks," she said. "Shall we take off the hats? Perhaps we will leave them on for a little," she added, quickly, seeing a shade of distress on Euleta's face; "they look so—gay and bright, and we might want to walk about the garden, you see."
Euleta beamed again, and the others with her. They were sisters, and their careful mother had given them hats just alike, dreadful mysteries of magenta roses and apple-green ribbon. Their pride was pleasant to see, and Hildegarde smiled back at them, saying to herself that the dear little faces would look charming in anything, however, hideous.
Soon more children came, and yet more: Vesta Philbrook and Martha Skeat, Philena Tabb and Susan Aurora Bulger,—twelve children in all, and every child there before the stroke of four.
"Well," said Hildegarde to herself, "the tea-table will not be quite so pretty as if I had had time to make the wreaths; but they would rather play than have wreaths, and I should not have left it till the last hour, sinner that I am." She proposed "Little Sally Waters," and they all fell to it with ardour.