Graham, and how she had the care of
her till she was almost a woman grown, and never would have left her
then if Jacob Hartley hadn't got out of patience.
"And to think how you've grown, Hilda dear! You don't remember it, of
course, but this isn't the first time you have been at Hartley's Glen. A
sweet baby you were, just toddling about on the prettiest little feet I
ever saw, when your mamma brought you out here to spend a month with old
Nurse Lucy. And your father came out every week, whenever he could get
away from his business. What a fine man he is, to be sure! And he and my
husband had rare times, shooting over the meadows, and fishing, and the
like."
They were still in the wood-road, now jolting along over ridges and
hummocks, now ploughing through stretches of soft, sandy soil. Above and
on either side, the great trees interlaced their branches, sometimes
letting them droop till they brushed against Hilda's cheek, sometimes
lifting them to give her a glimpse of cool vistas of dusky green, shade
within shade,--moss-grown hollows, where the St. John's-wort showed its
tarnished gold, and white Indian pipe gleamed like silver along the
ground; or stony beds over which, in the time of the spring rains,
little brown brooks ran foaming and bubbling down through the woods. The
air was filled with the faint cool smell of ferns, and on every side
were great masses of them,--clumps of splendid ostrich-ferns, waving
their green plumes in stately pride; miniature forests of the graceful
brake, beneath whose feathery branches the wood-mouse and other tiny
forest-creatures roamed secure; and in the very road-way, trampled under
old Nancy's feet, delicate lady-fern, and sturdy hart's-tongue, and a
dozen other varieties, all perfect in grace and sylvan beauty.
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