-way, trampled under
old Nancy's feet, delicate lady-fern, and sturdy hart's-tongue, and a
dozen other varieties, all perfect in grace and sylvan beauty. Hilda was
conscious of a vague delight, through all her fatigue and distress How
beautiful it was; how cool and green and restful! If she must stay in
the country, why could it not be always in the woods, where there was no
noise, nor dust, nor confusion?

Her revery was broken in upon by Dame Hartley's voice crying cheerily,--

"And here we are, out of the woods at last! Cheer up, my pretty, and let
me show you the first sight of the farm. It's a pleasant, heartsome
place, to my thinking."

The trees opened left and right, stepping back and courtesying, like
true gentlefolks as they are, with delicate leaf-draperies drooping low.
The sun shone bright and hot on a bit of hard, glaring yellow road, and
touched more quietly the roofs and chimneys of an old yellow farm-house
standing at some distance from the road, with green rolling meadows on
every side, and a great clump of trees mounting guard behind it. A low
stone wall, with wild-roses nodding over it, ran along the roadside for
some way, and midway in it was a trim, yellow-painted gate, which stood
invitingly open, showing a neat drive-way, shaded on either side by
graceful drooping elms. Old Nancy pricked up her ears and quickened her
pace into a very respectable trot, as if she already smelt her oats.
Dame Hartley shook her own comfortable shoulders and gave a little sigh
of relief, for she too was tired, and glad to get home. But Hilda
tightened her grasp on the handle of her dressing-bag, and closed her
eyes with a slight shiver of dislike and dread. She would not look at
this place. It was the hateful prison where she was to be shut up for
three long, weary, dismal months. The sun might shine on it, the trees
might wave, and the wild-roses open their slender pink buds; it would be
nothing to her. She hated it, and nothing, nothing, _nothing_ could
_ever_ make her feel differently. Ah! the fixed and immovable
determination of fifteen,--does later life bring anything like it?

But now the wagon stopped, and Hilda must open her eyes, whether she
would or no. In the porch, under the blossoming clematis, stood a tall,
broad-shouldered man, dressed in rough homespun, who held out his great
brown hand and said in a gruff, hearty voice,--

"Here ye be, eh? Thought ye was never comin'. And this is little miss,
is