Hildegarde's Home

sweep of lawn, fringed with trees; beside it stood a few noble elms, which bent lovingly above the gambrel roof. There were some flower-beds, rather neglected-looking, und

ry erect, with a certain proud carriage of the head. Her dress of black and white shepherd's plaid wa

s Hildegarde called them, the horses and carriages, the great New York house with its splendid furniture and troops of servants, must go; and go they did, without loss of time. Perhaps neither Hildegarde nor her mother regretted these things much. Mrs. Grahame had been for years an indefatigable worker, giving most of her time to charities; she knew that she should never rest so long as she lived in New York. Hildegarde had been much in the country during the past two y

. Grahame's nurse, and had been cook ever since Hildegarde was a baby) had come by an early train, and were to have everything as comfortable

min'?" summoned her in-doors. Auntie had already put on her white jacket and apron, without which she never considered herself dressed, and her m

aid, with a glance of keen observat

ered with a worked cloth of curious and antique pattern, and on it were some venerable annuals, and "Finden's Tableaux," bound in green morocco. In a dim corner stood the great-grandmother of all pianos. It was hardly larger than a spinnet, and was made of some light-coloured, highly polished wood, cunningly inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. Over the yellow keys was a painting, representing Apollo (attired, to all appearance, like the "old man on a

nd then, relenting, she added, "might ha' been pooty once, I

with golden ringlets, large blue eyes, particularly round rosy cheeks, and the most amiable

than I do. But see, auntie! see this great picture of General Washington, in his fine scarlet coat. I am sure you must admire that! W

t young ladies used to do when I was a gal. Don't see no sech work nowadays

since you are so fond of cross-stitch, take this dreadful yellow sofa-pillow, with pink roses worked on it.

p, comfortable old sofa, where one leaned against a stag-hunt, and had a huntsman blowing his horn on either arm; on the chairs, where one might sit on baskets of flowers, dishes of fruit, or cherubs

this matter!" She tiptoed about the room, and, going round the corner of the great chimney, found a cupboard snugly tucked in beside it. She opened it, with a delightful thrill of curiosity. Hildegarde did love cupboards! Of course, there might be nothing at all-but there was something! On the very first shelf stood a row of china pots, carefully covered, and from these pots came the faint, peculiar perfume which seemed so to form part of the faded charm of the room. The pots were of delicate white porcelain, one with gold sprigs on it, one with blue flowers, and one with pink. "Belonging to three Aytoun sisters!" said Hildegarde. "Of course! dear things! If they had only written their names on the jars!" She lifted the gold-sprigged jar with reverent hands. Lo, and behold! On the cover was pasted a neat label, which said, "Hester's recipe, June, 18-." She examined the other two jars eagerly. They bore similar legends, with the names "Agatha" and "Barbara." On all the writing was in minute but strongly marked characters; the three hands were different, yet there was a marked resemblance. Hildegarde sto

but cherished possessions), and the room was a pleasant litter of down pillows, cologne-bottles, work-implements, photograph cases and odd books. Now she inspected the chairs with a keen and critical eye, pounced upon one, sat down in it, shook her head and tried another. Finding this to her mind, she drew it into the bow-window, half-filled it with a choice assortment of small pillows, and placed a little table beside it, on which she set a fan, a bottle of cologne, a particularly inviting little volume of Wordsworth (Hildegarde

heard on the gravel, and tossing the linen on t

p to the pleasant room, and sink down in the comfortable cha

t and looking about her. "What a very pleasant room! I

ard and took the bonnet which Mrs. Grahame was about to lay on the table; "this

. But how can I possibly take anything off it? I should spoil the harmony. The straw-covered cologne-bottle makes just the

rchief with its contents. "You might hurt my feelings, Mrs. Grahame, and that

al. The Wordsworth touch I specially appreciate. He is so restful, with his smooth, brown covers.

cheerful malice. "They are charming covers. And now tell me what kind of j

up all the boxes, and took charge of everything that was to be stored or sold. Sad work! but I am glad it is done."

appiest years of her mother's, had been passed. Every corner in the New York house was filled with memories of the dear and noble man whom they so truly mourned, and it ha

the hand saying more than words could have done; but when M

(Hicks had been the Grahames' butler for several years), "and then Hicks came down to the statio

ng. "It must have been very hard for

e was very fond of out-door work; but I had to tell him that we should only need a 'chore-man,' to do odds and ends of work, and should

ed, "what have been your happenings. F

most houses. Then the parlour! such a wonderful parlour! I am sure you will agree with me that it would be sacrilege to put any of our modern belongings in it. I did give auntie on

e asked. "I was saving them for an after-supper 'tell' for

e cupboard. I went mousing about, like little Silver-hair, and instead of three porridge-pots, found these. Miss Hester's was the only pot that had any 'sniff' left to speak of; from w

ill not tell you anything till I have had my te

her breast. "You are starved, my poor darling, and

possible Janet, as Scotch as her name, with rosy cheeks and wide, innocent blue eyes, and "lint-white locks," as a Scotch

t is good, for we are 'gay and ready,' as you say. Com

ery blaze of light greeted them. There were no less than six candles on the table, in six silver candlesticks shaped like Corinthian columns. (Auntie had hidden these candlesticks in her own trunk, with a special eye to this effect.) On the table also was everything good

send ye good victuals, and plenty of 'em! De Lord grant ye

lips, Hildegarde and her mother sat dow