Was it a part of this whole scheme; and was the object of the
scheme to humiliate her, to take away her self-respect, her proper
pride?

Mechanically, but carefully, as was her wont, Hilda hung the despised
frocks in the closet, put away the hats, after trying them on and
approving of them, in spite of herself ("Of course," she said, "mamma
_could_ not get an ugly hat, if she tried!"), and then proceeded to take
out and lay in the bureau drawers the dainty under-clothing which filled
the lower part of the trunk. Under all was a layer of books, at sight
of which Hilda gave a little cry of pleasure. "Ah!" she said, "I shall
not be quite alone;" for she saw at a glance that here were some old and
dear friends. Lovingly she took them up, one by one: "Romances of the
Middle Ages," Percy's "Reliques," "Hereward," and "Westward, Ho!" and,
best-beloved of all, the "Adventures of Robin Hood," by grace of Howard
Pyle made into so strong an enchantment that the heart thrills even at
sight of its good brown cover. And here was her Tennyson and her
Longfellow, and Plutarch's Lives, and the "Book of Golden Deeds." Verily
a goodly company, such as might even turn a prison into a palace. But
what was this, lying in the corner, with her Bible and Prayer-book, this
white leather case, with--ah! Hilda--with blue forget-me-nots delicately
painted on it? Hastily Hilda took it up and pressed the spring. Her
mother's face smiled on her! The clear, sweet eyes looked lovingly into
hers; the tender mouth, which had never spoken a harsh or unkind word,
seemed almost to quiver as if in life. So kind, so loving, so faithful,
so patient, always ready to sympathize, to help, to smile with one's joy
or to comfort one's grief,--her own dear, dear mother! A mist came
before the girl's eyes. She gazed at the miniature till she could no
longer see it; and then, flinging herself down on the pillow again, she
burst into a passion of tears, and sobbed and wept as if her heart would
break. No longer Queen Hildegardis, no longer the outraged and indignant
"prisoner," only Hilda,--Hilda who wanted her mother!

Finally she sobbed herself to sleep,--which was the very best thing she
could have done. By and by Dame Hartley peeped softly in, and seeing the
child lying "all in a heap," as she said to herself, with her pretty
hair all tumbled about, brought a shawl and covered her carefully up,
and went quietly away.

"Pretty lamb!" said the good woman. "She'll sle