rn't ye?" He looked up again, with a
sudden glare.

"Yes," Hildegarde admitted, "I was; and my friend too. She knit the
stockings for you, sir. I hope you liked them."

"Yes, yes!" said the old man, absently. "Good stockin's, good stockin's!
Nice gal she is too. But--'t was you left the book, warn't it, hey?"

"Yes," said Hildegarde, blushing. "I am so fond of 'Robinson Crusoe'
myself, I thought you might like it too."

"Hain't seen that book for fifty year!" said the old man. "Sot up all
last night readin' it. It'll be comp'ny to me all winter. And you--you
took thought on me!--a young, fly-away, handsome gal, and old G'lushe
Pennypacker! Wal, 't won't be forgot here, nor yet yender!"

He gave an upward jerk of his head, and then passed his rag of a
handkerchief over his face again, and said he must be going. But he did
not go till he had had a glass of milk, and half-a-dozen of Mrs. Brett's
doughnuts, to strengthen him for his homeward walk.

All this came back to Hildegarde, as she stood on the piazza; and as she
recalled the softened, friendly look in the old man's eyes as he bade
her good-by, she said again to herself, "This is the happiest day of my
life!" The next day would not be so happy, for Rose and Bubble were
going,--one to her home at Hartley's Glen, the other to his school in
New York; and in a fortnight she must herself be turning her face
homeward.

How short the summer had been!--had there ever been such a flying
season?--and yet she had done very little; she had only been happy, and
enjoyed herself. Miss Wealthy, perhaps, could have told another
story,--of kind deeds and words; of hours spent in reading aloud, in
winding wools, in arranging flowers, in the thousand little
helpfulnesses by which a girl can make herself beloved and necessary in
a household. To the gentle, dreamy, delicate Rose, Hildegarde had really
_been_ the summer. Without this strong arm always round her, this strong
sunny nature, helping, cheering, amusing, how could she have come out of
the life-long habits of invalidism, and learned to face the world
standing on both feet? She could not have done it, Rose felt; and with
this feeling, she probably would not have done it.

But, as I said, Hildegarde knew nothing of this. She had been happy,
that was all. And though she was going to her own beloved home, and to
the parents who were the greater part of the world to her, still she
would be sorry to leave this happiness even f