to set with his own kith and kin, father 'ud go an git the old blue
platter and set it afore him, an' say, 'Here's _your_ dish, Simon; been
diggin' any lately, my son?' and then lay back in his cheer and laugh."

"And did Simon become--a--a gentleman?" asked Hilda, taking her own
little lesson very meekly, in her desire to know more.

Farmer Hartley's brow clouded instantly, and the smile vanished from his
lips. "Poor Simon!" he said, sadly. "He might ha' been anythin' he
liked, if he'd lived and--been fortunate."

"Simon Hartley is dead, Hilda dear," interposed Dame Hartley, gently;
"he died some years ago. Will you have some of your own currants, my
dear?--Hilda has been helping me a great deal, Father," she added,
addressing her husband. "I don't know how I should have got all my
currants picked without her help."

"Has she so?" exclaimed the farmer, fixing his keen gray eyes on the
girl. "Waal! waal! to think o' that! Why, we sh'll hev her milkin' that
cow soon, after all; hey, Huldy?"

Hildegarde looked up bravely, with a little smile. "I will try," she
said, cheerfully, "if you will risk the milk, Farmer Hartley."

The old farmer returned her smile with one so bright and kind and genial
that somehow the ice bent, then cracked, and then broke. The old Hilda
shrank into so small a space that there was really very little left of
her, and the new Hilda rose from table feeling that she had gained a new
friend.