She would not look at
this place. It was the hateful prison where she was to be shut up for
three long, weary, dismal months. The sun might shine on it, the trees
might wave, and the wild-roses open their slender pink buds; it would be
nothing to her. She hated it, and nothing, nothing, _nothing_ could
_ever_ make her feel differently. Ah! the fixed and immovable
determination of fifteen,--does later life bring anything like it?
But now the wagon stopped, and Hilda must open her eyes, whether she
would or no. In the porch, under the blossoming clematis, stood a tall,
broad-shouldered man, dressed in rough homespun, who held out his great
brown hand and said in a gruff, hearty voice,--
"Here ye be, eh? Thought ye was never comin'. And this is little miss,
is it? Howdy, missy? Glad to see ye! Let me jump ye out over the wheel!"
But Hilda declined to be "jumped out;" and barely touching the proffered
hand, sprang lightly to the ground.
"Now, Marm Lucy," said Farmer Hartley, "let's see you give a jump like
that. 'Tain't so long, seems to me, sence ye used to be as spry as a
hoppergrass."
Dame Hartley laughed, and climbed leisurely down from the cart. "Never
mind, Jacob!" she said; "I'm spry enough yet to take care of you, if I
can't jump as well as I used."
"This missy's trunk?" continued the farmer. "Let me see! What's missy's
name now? Huldy, ain't it! Little Huldy! 'Pears to me that's what they
used to call ye when ye was here before.
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