Graham, shortly. "Best thing for her. Been
studying too hard, I suppose, and eating caramels. If I could discover
the man who invented that pernicious sweetmeat, I would have him
hanged!--hanged, madam!"
"Oh, no, you wouldn't, dear!" said his wife, laughing softly; "I think
his life would be quite safe. But about Hilda now! She _does_ need a
change, certainly; but is the overland journey in July just the right
kind of change for her, do you think?"
Mr. Graham frowned, ran his fingers through his hair, drummed on the
table, and then considered his boots attentively. "Well--no!" he said at
last, reluctantly. "I--suppose--not. But what _can_ we do with her? Send
her to Fred and Mary at the seashore?"
"To sleep in a room seven by twelve, and be devoured by mosquitoes, and
have to wear 'good clothes' all the time?" returned Mrs. Graham.
"Certainly not."
"Aunt Emily is going to the mountains," suggested Mr. Graham,
doubtfully.
"Yes," replied his wife, "with sixteen trunks, a maid, a footman, and
three lapdogs! _That_ would _never_ do for Hilda."
"You surely are not thinking of leaving her alone here with the
servants?"
The lady shook her head. "No, dear; such poor wits as Heaven granted me
are not yet entirely gone, thank you!"
Mr. Graham rose from his chair and flung out both arms in a manner
peculiar to him when excited. "Now, now, now, Mildred!" he said
impressively, "I have always said that you were a good woman, and I
shall continue to assert the same; but you have powers of tormenting
that could not be surpassed by the most heartless of your sex.
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