honor to the vittles to put them in her mouth; and to think of my
maid--" He stopped abruptly, and rising from the bench, began to pace up
and down the garden-path. His wife joined him after a moment, and the
two walked slowly to and fro together, talking in low tones, while the
soft summer darkness gathered closer and closer, and the pleasant
night-sounds woke, cricket and katydid and the distant whippoorwill
filling the air with a cheerful murmur.

Long, long sat Hildegarde at the window, thinking more deeply than she
had ever thought in her life before. Different passions held her young
mind in control while she sat motionless, gazing into the darkness with
wide-open eyes. First anger burned high, flooding her cheek with hot
blushes, making her temples throb and her hands clench themselves in a
passion of resentment. But to this succeeded a mood of deep sadness, of
despair, as she thought; though at fifteen one knows not, happily, the
meaning of despair.

Was this all true? Was she no better, no wiser, than the silly girls of
her set? She had always felt herself so far above them mentally; they
had always so frankly acknowledged her supremacy; she knew she was
considered a "very superior girl:" was it true that her only superiority
lay in possessing powers which she never chose to exert? And then came
the bitter thought: "What have I ever done to prove myself wiser than
they?" Alas for the answer! Hilda hid her face in her hands, and it was
shame instead of anger that now sent the crimson flush over her cheeks.
Her mother despised her! Her mother--perhaps her father too! They loved
her, of course; the tender love had never failed, and would never fail.
They were proud of her too, in a way. And yet they despised her; they
must despise her! How could they help it? Her mother, whose days were a
ceaseless round of work for others, without a thought of herself; her