is an ugly name, and I am quite
sure it must be an ugly place."

"That is true," said Hilda, pausing and looking straight before her
with her pretty brows knit. "Oh, dear, oh, dear! I wonder what is right.
And a little house might have a garden too, mightn't it, Judy?"

"Of course, and a fowl-house and a cote for your pigeons."

"To be sure; and when you come to see me, you should have a strip of
garden to dig in all for yourself."

"Oh, should I really come to see you, Hilda? Miss Mills said that you
wouldn't want me--that you wouldn't be bothered with me."

"That I wouldn't be bothered with you? Why, I shall wish to have you
with me quite half the time. Now, now, am I to be strangled again?
Please, Judy, abstain from embracing, and tell me whether we are to have
a flat or a cottage."

"Of course you are to have a cottage, with the garden and the
fowl-house."

"I declare I think I'll take your advice, you little dear. I'll write
and tell Jasper that I'd much rather have a cottage. Now, who is that
knocking at the door? Run, Judy, and see what's wanted."

Judy returned in a moment with a telegram.

Hilda tore it open with fingers that slightly trembled.

"Oh, how joyful, how joyful!" she exclaimed.

"What is it?" asked Judy.

"Jasper is coming--my dear, dear Jasper. See what he says--'Have heard
the bad news--my deepest sympathy--expect me this evening.' Then I
needn't write after all. Judy, Judy, I agree with you; I feel quite
happy, even though it is the dreadful day when the blow has been
struck."

Judy did not say anything, she rose languidly to her feet.

"Where are you going?" asked Hilda.

"For a walk."

"Why so?"

"Miss Mills said that even though we were poor I was to take the fresh
air," replied the child in a prim little voice, out of which all the
spirit had gone.

She kissed Hilda, but no longer in a rapturous, tempestuous fashion, and
walked soberly out of the room.

CHAPTER V.

IN A GARDEN.

I go like one in a dream, unbidden my feet know the way,
To that garden where love stood in blossom with the red and
white hawthorn of May.

--MATHILDE BLIND.

Aunt Marjorie had cried until she could cry no longer. Hers was a
slighter nature than either Mr. Merton's or Hilda's. In consequence,
perhaps, she was able to realize the blow which had come upon them more
vividly and more quickly than either her brother or niece.

Aunt Marjorie had