pale green porcelain, filled with nodding purple iris; the green
glass bowls held double buttercups and hobble-bush sprays, while
two portraits, those of Dundee and William the Silent, were
wreathed in long garlands of white hawthorn. The effect was
charming, and Hildegarde might well look satisfied. But Bell
Merryweather, when she came into the room, thought that its owner
was the most beautiful part of it. Hildegarde was used to herself,
as she would have said frankly; she knew she was pretty, and it
was pleasant to be pretty, and there was an end of it. But to
Bell, in whose family either brown locks or red were the rule,
this white and gold maiden, with her cool, fresh tints of pearl
and rose, was something wonderful. Hildegarde's dress this morning
was certainly nothing astonishing, simply a white cambric powdered
with buttercups; but its perfect freshness, its trim simplicity,
made it so absolutely the fit and proper thing, that Bell's honest
heart did homage to the lovely vision; there was something almost
like reverence in her eyes as she returned Hildegarde's cordial
greeting. As for the young Gertrude, all the world was fairyland
to her, and Hildegarde was the queen, opening the door of a new
province. The most important thing in life was not to fall or drop
anything on this first visit to the strange and wonderful old
house, as all the Merryweathers persisted in calling Braeside.
Gertrude was always falling and dropping things. At home nobody
expected anything else; but here it was different, and the poor
child was conscious of every finger and toe as she stepped along
gingerly. Gerald's parting words were still ringing in her ears:

"When you feel that you must fall down, Dropsy, be careful not to
fall into shelves of china,--that's all. Bookcases are the best
things to fall into, you'll find; and a book is the best thing to