It was a delightful little plan! Pink was to be sent to a
New York hospital,--the very best hospital that could be found; and
Hildegarde hoped--she thought--she felt almost sure that the trouble
could be greatly helped, if not cured altogether. And then, when Pink
was well, or at least a great, great deal better, she was to come and
live at the farm, and help Nurse Lucy, and sing to the farmer, and be
all the comfort--no, not all, but nearly the comfort that Faith would
have been if she had lived. And Bubble--yes! Bubble must go to
school,--to a good school, where his bright, quick mind should learn
everything there was to learn. Papa would see to that, Hilda knew he
would. Bubble would delight Papa! And then he would go to college, and
by and by become a famous doctor, or a great lawyer, or--oh! Bubble
could be anything he chose, she was sure of it.
So the girl's happy thoughts flew on through the years that were to
come, weaving golden fancies even as her fingers were weaving the gay
chains of shining leaves; but let us hope the fancy-chains, airy as they
were, were destined to become substantial realities long after the
golden wreaths had faded.
But now the garlands were ready, and none too soon; for the shadows were
lengthening, and she heard Nurse Lucy downstairs, and Farmer Hartley
would be coming in soon to his tea. She took from a drawer her one white
frock, the plain lawn which had once seemed so over-plain to her, and
with the wreaths of scarlet and gold she made a very wonderful thing of
it.
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