y--if you are quite sure--"

But Hildegarde waited for no "ifs." She whirled upstairs, flew out of
her pink gingham and into a sober dark blue one, exchanged her garden
hat for a blue "sailor," whirled downstairs again, kissed Rose on both
cheeks, dropped another kiss on Miss Wealthy's cap, and was in the wagon
and out of sight round the corner before any one with moderately
deliberate enunciation could have said "Jack Robinson."

Miss Wealthy dropped back in her chair, and drew a long, fluttering
breath. She looked flushed and worried, and put her hand nervously up to
the pansy brooch. Seeing this, Rose came quietly, picked up the
crochet-hook, and sat down to admire the work, and wonder if she could
learn the stitch. "Perhaps some time you would show it to me, dear Miss
Bond," she said; "and now may I read you that article on
window-gardening that you said you would like to hear?"

So Rose read, in her low, even tones, smooth and pleasant as the
rippling of water; and Miss Wealthy's brow grew calm again, and the
flush passed away, and her thoughts passed pleasantly from "one, two,
purl, slip," to gloxinias and cyclamen, and back again; till at length,
the day being warm, she fell asleep, which was exactly what the wily
Rose meant her to do.

Meantime Hildegarde was speeding along toward the station, seated beside
Jeremiah in the green wagon, with the box of flowers stowed safely under
the seat. She was in high spirits, and determined to enjoy every moment
of her "escapade," as she called it. Jeremiah surveyed her bright face
with chastened melancholy.

"Reckon you're in for a junket," he said kindly. "Quite a head o' steam
you carry. 'T'll do ye good to work it off some."

"Yes!" cried Hildegarde. "It is a regular frolic, isn't it, Jeremiah?
How beautiful everything looks! What a perfection of a day it is!"

"Fine hayin' weather!" Jeremiah assented. "We sh'll begin to-morrow, I
calc'late. Pleasant, hayin' time is. Now, thar's a field!" He pointed
with his whip to a broad meadow all blue-green with waving timothy, and
sighed, and shook his head.

"Isn't it a good field?" asked Hildegarde, innocently.

"Best lot on the place!" replied the prophet, with melancholy
enthusiasm. "Not many lots like that in _this_ neighborhood! There's a
power o' grass there. Well, sirs! grass must be cut, and hay must be
eat,--there's no gainsayin' that,--'in the sweat o' thy brow,' ye
understand; but still there's some enj'yment