“No, dear, I do not know of anything needed.”
Hilda went to her room to put on her wraps, and Mrs. Warfield, after a moment’s reflection, laid aside her sewing and followed.
“My dear,” she said, as Hilda opened the door for her, “if you are writing to Fred, I hope you will be careful what you write. He is very careless of his letters, and other eyes may see what you only intend for his. I do not seek to question into what should perhaps not concern me, but you appear a little different from your usual manner and I only wish to warn you.”
The color left the face of the girl for a moment, and she leaned against her dressing-table for support.
“You are his mother,” she said with tear-dimmed eyes. “Read what he says.”
“I hope, my child, that you have not asked me to do this unless you are desirous that I should read it.”
“I did not even imagine, five minutes ago, that I could ever allow anyone to see it; now I wish you to read it,” and tears rolled down the pale cheeks.
Mrs. Warfield opened the sheet and glanced over the words:
“My Poor Little Hilda:
“No one could have convinced me half a year ago that I would address you, whom I then loved, to tell you that my feelings in regard to you have undergone a change. I am heartily ashamed of myself to have to acknowledge this, and no doubt you will be disappointed in me. Perhaps if I could have seen you oftener it might have been different. If I could know what my future sentiments toward you will be I would gladly tell you. I hope you will care a little because of this, but I do not wish you to grieve too much.
“Your Cousin Fred.”
The flush which had arisen to the cheek of Hilda was eclipsed by the glow that spread over the face of Mrs. Warfield. She gave the letter back without a word, her eyes refusing to meet those of the girl standing before her.