this graceful jug with the
quaint gilt dragon for a handle, these smaller jugs, boxes, and dishes,
all of the same pattern, all with dark-blue dragons (no cold "Canton"
blue, but a rich, splendid ultramarine), large and small, prancing and
sprawling on a pale buff ground,--what were these things doing in the
paltry bedroom of a common farm-house? Hilda felt a new touch of
indignation at "these people" for presuming to have such things in their
possession.

When her keen eyes had taken in everything, down to the neat rag-carpet
on the floor, the girl bethought her of her trunk. She might as well
unpack it. Her head could not ache worse, whatever she did; and now that
that little imp Curiosity was once awake, he prompted her to wonder what
the trunk contained. None of the dresses she had been wearing, she was
sure of that; for they were all hanging safely in her wardrobe at home.
What surprise had mamma been planning? Well, she would soon know.
Hastily unlocking the trunk, she lifted out one tray after another and
laid them on the bed. In the first were piles of snowy collars and
handkerchiefs, all of plain, fine linen, with no lace or embroidery; a
broad-brimmed straw hat with a simple wreath of daisies round it;
another hat, a small one, of rough gray felt, with no trimming at all,
save a narrow scarlet ribbon; a pair of heavy castor gloves; a couple of
white aprons, and one of brown holland, with long sleeves. The next tray
was filled with dresses,--dresses which made Hilda's eyes open wide
again, as she laid them out, one by one, at full length. There was a
dark blue gingham with a red stripe, a brown gingham dotted with yellow
daisies, a couple of light calicoes, each with a tiny figure or flower
on it, a white lawn, and a sailor-suit of rough blue flannel. All these
dresses, and among them all not an atom of trimming. No sign of an
overskirt, no ruffle or puff, plaiting or ruching, no "Hamburg" or
lace,--nothing! Plain round waists, neatly stitched at throat and
wrists; plain round skirts, each with a deep hem, and not so much as a
tuck by way of adornment.

Hildegarde drew a deep breath, and looked at the simple frocks with
kindling eyes and flushing cheeks. These were the sort of dresses that
her mother's servants wore at home. Why was she condemned to wear them
now,--she, who delighted in soft laces and dainty embroideries and the
clinging draperies which she thought suited her slender, pliant figure
so well?