It's near our
dinner-time. Or shall I bring ye up something now,--a cup o' tea and a
cooky, eh? Or would you like solid victuals better?"
"Thank you!" said Hilda. "I am not at all hungry; I could not possibly
eat anything. My head aches badly!" she added, nervously forestalling
her hostess's protestations. "Perhaps a cup of tea later, thank you! I
should like to rest now. And I shall not want any dinner."
"Oh! you'll feel better, dear, when you have rested a bit," said Dame
Hartley, smoothing the girl's fair hair with a motherly touch, and not
seeming to notice her angry shrinking away. "It's the best thing you can
do, to lie down and take a good nap; then you'll wake up fresh as a
lark, and ready to enjoy yourself. Good-by, dearie! I'll bring up your
tea in an hour or so." And with a parting nod and smile, the good woman
departed, leaving Hilda, like the heroine of a three-volume novel,
"alone with her despair."
Very tragic indeed the maiden looked as she tossed off her hat and flung
herself face downward on the bed, refusing to cast even a glance at the
cell which was to be her hateful prison. "For of course I shall spend my
time here!" she said to herself. "They may send me here, keep me here
for years, if they will; but they cannot make me associate with these
people." And she recalled with a shudder the gnarled, horny hand which
she had touched in jumping from the cart,--she had never felt anything
like it; the homely speech, and the nasal twang with which it was
delivered; the uncouth garb (good stout butternut homespun!) and unkempt
hair and beard of the "odious old savage," as she mentally named Farmer
Hartley.
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