Of course, Hilda dearest, you know that my
admiration for your mother is _simply_ IMMENSE, and
that I would not for _worlds_ say _one syllable_ against her
judgment and that of your _military angel_ of a father; but
I MUST say it seemed to me MORE than
strange. I assure you I hardly closed my eyes for several
nights, thinking of the MISERY you must be
undergoing; for _I_ KNOW you, Hildegarde! and the
thought of my proud, fastidious, high-bred Queen being
condemned to associate with _clowns_ and _laborers_ was
really MORE than I could bear. Do write to me,
darling, and tell me HOW you are enduring it. You
were _always_ so sensitive; why, I can see your lip curl
_now_, when any of the girls did anything that was not _tout
a fait comme il faut_! and the _air_ with which you used to
say, "The _little_ things, my dear, are the _only_ things!"
How _true_ it is! I feel it more and more _every_ day. So
_do_ write _at once_, and let me know _all_ about your dear
self. I picture you to myself sometimes, pale and thin, with
the "_white disdain_" that some poet or other speaks of, in
your face, but enduring all the HORRORS that you
must be subjected to with your OWN DIGNITY. Dearest
Hilda, you are _indeed_ a HEROINE!
Always, darling,
Your own deeply _devoted_ and _sympathizing_
MADGE.
Hildegarde looked up after reading this letter, and, curiously enough,
her eyes fell directly on a little mirror which hung on the wall
opposite.
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