"What an independent young person you are, Hilda!" said her friend, laughing at her; "but you must not spend all your money on cups and saucers—"
"And teapots!" interjected Hilda—"such sweet little china teapots. I will have one for every day in the week."
"Teapots are all very well; but you will have your trousseau to buy. You must keep some of your money for frocks."
"I have no end of frocks; more than enough," protested Hilda. "I shall buy just two new gowns—my wedding-gown, and a tailor gown for riding outside coaches in the honeymoon. Bothwell proposes that we should go round the south coast as far as the Start, and then across country to Hartland, and home by Bude. That is to be our honeymoon tour."
"Very nice, and very inexpensive, dearest. And then you are to come here to live till your new home is ready?"
"I am afraid we shall be very much in your way."
"You will be a comfort to me, Hilda; both you and Bothwell will be a help and comfort to me."
Hilda spent her evenings for the most part in the invalid's room. Her sympathetic nature made it easy for her to adapt herself to the necessities of a sick-room. She could be very quiet, and yet she could be bright and gay. She could be cheerful without being noisy. She sang with exquisite taste, and sang the songs which are delightful to all hearers—songs that appeal to the heart and soothe the senses.
Julian Wyllard was particularly fond of her German ballads—Schubert, Mendelssohn, Jensen, old Volks-Lieder; but once when she began a little French song, "Si tu savais," he stopped her with a painful motion of his distorted hand.
"Not that, Hilda. I detest that song;" and for the first time Hilda doubted the excellence of his judgment.