I went to the farm myself last week, and
found it a lovely place, with every comfort, though no luxuries, save
the great one of a free, healthy, natural life. There, my Hilda, we
shall leave you, sadly indeed, and yet feeling that you are in good and
loving hands. And I feel very sure," she added in a lighter tone, "that
by the time we return, you will be a rosy-cheeked country lass, strong
and hearty, with no more thought of headaches, and no wrinkle in your
forehead." As she ceased speaking, Mrs. Graham drew the girl close to
her, and kissed the white brow tenderly, murmuring: "God bless my
darling daughter! If she knew how her mother's heart aches at parting
with her!" But Hilda did not know. She was too angry, too bewildered,
too deeply hurt, to think of any one except herself. She felt that she
could not trust herself to speak, and it was in silence, and without
returning her mother's caress, that she rose and sought her own room.
Mrs. Graham looked after her wistfully, tenderly, but made no effort to
call her back. The tears trembled in her soft blue eyes, and her lip
quivered as she turned to her work-table; but she said quietly to
herself: "Solitude is a good medicine. The child will do well, and I
know that I have chosen wisely for her."
Bitter tears did Hildegarde shed as she flung herself face downward on
her own blue sofa. Angry thoughts surged through her brain. Now she
burned with resentment at the parents who could desert her,--their only
child; now she melted into pity for herself, and wept more and more as
she pictured the misery that lay before her.
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