for all who were in trouble which drew all sad hearts towards her.

And so, on this occasion, the little woman had sat for a few moments
looking at the pictured face on the wall, with its mingled majesty and
sweetness; had peeped into the best-beloved of all books, and said a
little prayer, as was her wont when "puzzled," before she sent the
message to Hilda,--for she knew that she must sorely hurt and grieve the
child who was half the world to her; and though she did not flinch from
the task, she longed for strength and wisdom to do it in the kindest and
wisest way.

"Hilda, dear," she said gently, when they were seated together on the
sofa, hand in hand, with each an arm round the other's waist, as they
loved best to sit,--"Hilda, dear, I have something to say that will not
please you; something that may even grieve you very much at first." She
paused, and Hilda rapidly reviewed in her mind all the possibilities
that she could think of. Had anything happened to the box of French
dresses which was on its way from Paris? Had a careless servant broken
the glass of her fernery again? Had Aunt Emily been saying disagreeable
things about her, as she was apt to do? She was about to speak, but at
that moment, like a thunderbolt, the next words struck her ear: "We have
decided not to take you with us to California." Amazed, wounded,
indignant, Hilda could only lift her great gray eyes to meet the soft
violet ones which, full of unshed tears, were fixed tenderly upon her.
Mrs. Graham continued: "Your father and I both feel, my darling, that
this long, fatiguing journey, in the full heat of summer, would be the
worst possible thing for you. You have not been very well lately, and it
is most important that you should lead a quiet, regular, healthy life
for the next few months. We have therefore made arrangements to leave
you--"