Hildegarde took out her pocket scissors, and snipped with ardour,
then drew off the cover. It was a doll's bedstead, of polished
mahogany, with four pineapple-topped posts, exactly like the great
one in which Hildegarde herself slept; and in it, under dainty
frilled sheets, blankets and coverlid, lay two of the prettiest
dolls that ever were seen. Their nightgowns were of fine linen;
the nightcaps, tied under their dimpled chins, were sheer lawn,
exquisitely embroidered. One tiny waxen hand lay outside the
coverlid, and in it was a folded piece of paper.

"Oh, Hildegarde!" cried Bell, "what does it mean?"

Gertrude was in tears by this time, the big crystal drops rolling
silently down her cheeks; her heart was wrung, she did not know
why.

"Hester Aytoun," said Hildegarde, softly. "This must have been her
playroom, Bell. She used to live here; it is about her that I
wanted to tell you. But first let us see what she has written
here. I think she would be willing; we are girls, too, and I don't
think Hester would mind."

There were tears in Hildegarde's voice, if not in her eyes, as she
read the writing, now yellow with age:

"I, Hester Aytoun, being now sixteen years old, am putting away my
dear dolls, the dearest dolls in the world. Sister Barbara says I
am far too old for such childish things; but I shall never be too
old in my heart, though I may well busy myself with household
matters, especially if I must marry Tom in three years, as he