it--"

"Instead of all the ten fingers _going_ through it," interrupted her
husband. "Never mind my hair; that is not the point.
_What_--do--you--propose--to--do--with--your daughter--Hildegarde, or
Hildegardis, as it should properly be written?"

"Well, dear George," said the commander-in-chief (she was a very small
woman and a very pretty one, though she had a daughter "older than
herself," as her husband said; and she wore a soft lilac gown, and had
soft, wavy brown hair, and was altogether very pleasant to look
at)--"well, dear George, the truth is, I _have_ a little plan, which I
should like very much to carry out, if you fully approve of it."

"Ha!" said Mr. Graham, tossing his "tempestuous locks" again, "ho! I
thought as much. _If_ I approve, eh, little madam? Better say, whether I
approve or not."

So saying, the good-natured giant sat himself down again, and listened
while his wife unfolded her plan; and what the plan was, we shall see by
and by. Meanwhile let us take a peep at Hilda, or Hildegardis, as she
sits in her own room, all unconscious of the plot which is hatching in
the parlor below. She is a tall girl of fifteen. Probably she has
attained her full height, for she looks as if she had been growing too
fast; her form is slender, her face pale, with a weary look in the large
gray eyes. It is a delicate, high-bred face, with a pretty nose,
slightly "tip-tilted," and a beautiful mouth; but it is half-spoiled by
the expression, which is discontented, if not actually peevish. If we
lifted the light curling locks of fair hair which lie on her forehead,
we should see a very decided frown on a broad white space which ought to
be absolutely smooth. Why should a girl of fifteen frown, especially a
girl so "exceptionally fortunate" as all her friends considered Hilda
Graham? Certainly her surroundings at this moment are pretty enough to
satisfy any girl. The room is not large, but it has a sunny bay-window
which seems to increase its size twofold. In re-furnishing it a year
before, her father had in mind Hilda's favorite flower, the
forget-me-not, and the room is simply a bower of forget-me-nots.
Scattered over the dull olive ground of the carpet, clustering and
nodding from the wall-paper, peeping from the folds of the curtains, the
forget-me-nots are everywhere. Even the creamy surface of the toilet-jug
and bowl, even the ivory backs of the brushes that lie on the
blue-covered toilet table, bear each its c