Hildegarde drew a deep breath, and looked at the simple frocks with
kindling eyes and flushing cheeks. These were the sort of dresses that
her mother's servants wore at home. Why was she condemned to wear them
now,--she, who delighted in soft laces and dainty embroideries and the
clinging draperies which she thought suited her slender, pliant figure
so well? Was it a part of this whole scheme; and was the object of the
scheme to humiliate her, to take away her self-respect, her proper
pride?
Mechanically, but carefully, as was her wont, Hilda hung the despised
frocks in the closet, put away the hats, after trying them on and
approving of them, in spite of herself ("Of course," she said, "mamma
_could_ not get an ugly hat, if she tried!"), and then proceeded to take
out and lay in the bureau drawers the dainty under-clothing which filled
the lower part of the trunk. Under all was a layer of books, at sight
of which Hilda gave a little cry of pleasure. "Ah!" she said, "I shall
not be quite alone;" for she saw at a glance that here were some old and
dear friends. Lovingly she took them up, one by one: "Romances of the
Middle Ages," Percy's "Reliques," "Hereward," and "Westward, Ho!" and,
best-beloved of all, the "Adventures of Robin Hood," by grace of Howard
Pyle made into so strong an enchantment that the heart thrills even at
sight of its good brown cover. And here was her Tennyson and her
Longfellow, and Plutarch's Lives, and the "Book of Golden Deeds.
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