THE PRISONER OF DESPAIR.


As she followed in angry silence, Hilda had a glimpse through a
half-open door of a cosey sitting-room; while another door, standing
fully open at the other end of the little hall, showed, by a blaze of
scarlet tiger-lilies and yellow marigolds, where the garden lay. And now
the farmer opened a door and set down the trunk with a heavy thump; and
Dame Hartley, taking the girl's hand, led her forward, saying: "Here, my
dear, here is your own little room,--the same that your dear mamma slept
in when she was here! And I hope you'll be happy in it, Hilda dear, and
get all the good we wish for you while you're here!" Hilda bowed
slightly, feeling unable to speak; and the good woman continued: "You
must be hungry as well as tired, travelling since morning. It's near our
dinner-time. Or shall I bring ye up something now,--a cup o' tea and a
cooky, eh? Or would you like solid victuals better?"

"Thank you!" said Hilda. "I am not at all hungry; I could not possibly
eat anything. My head aches badly!" she added, nervously forestalling
her hostess's protestations. "Perhaps a cup of tea later, thank you! I
should like to rest now. And I shall not want any dinner."

"Oh! you'll feel better, dear, when you have rested a bit," said Dame
Hartley, smoothing the girl's fair hair with a motherly touch, and not
seeming to notice her angry shrinking away. "It's the best thing you can
do, to lie down and take a good nap; then you'll wake up fresh as a
lark, and ready to enjoy yourself. Good-by, dearie! I'll bring up your
tea in an hour or so." And with a parting nod and smile, the good woman
departed, leaving Hilda, like the heroine of a three-volume novel,
"alone with her despair."