were concocting. She knew that her father was obliged to go to San
Francisco, being called suddenly to administer the estate of a cousin
who had recently died there, and that her mother and--as she
supposed--herself were going with him to offer sympathy and help to the
widow, an invalid with three little children. As to the idea of her
being left behind; of her father's starting off on a long journey
without his lieutenant-general; of her mother's parting from her only
child, whom she had watched with tender care and anxiety since the day
of her birth,--such a thought never came into Hilda's mind. Wherever her
parents went she went, as a matter of course. So it had always been, and
so without doubt it always would be. She did not care specially about
going to California at this season of the year,--in fact she had told
her bosom friend, Madge Everton, only the day before, that it was
"rather a bore," and that she should have preferred to go to Newport.
"But what would you?" she added, with the slightest shrug of her pretty
shoulders. "Papa and mamma really must go, it appears; so of course I
must go too."

"A bore!" repeated Madge energetically, replying to the first part of
her friend's remarks. "Hilda, what a _very_ singular girl you are! Here
I, or Nelly, or _any_ of the other girls would give both our ears, and
our front teeth too, to make such a trip; and just because you _can_ go,
you sit there and call it 'a bore!'" And Madge shook her black curls,
and opened wide eyes of indignation and wonder at our ungrateful
heroine. "I only wish," she added, "that you and I could be changed into
each other, just for this summer."

"I wish--" began Hilda; but she checked herself in her response to the
wish, as the thought of Madge's five brothers rose in her mind (Hilda
could not endure boys!), looked attentively at the toe of her little