"Of course you are to have a cottage, with the garden and the fowl-house." "I declare I think I'll take your advice, you little dear. I'll write and tell Jasper that I'd much rather have a cottage. Now, who is that knocking at the door? Run, Judy, and see what's wanted." Judy returned in a moment with a telegram. Hilda tore it open with fingers that slightly trembled. "Oh, how joyful, how joyful!" she exclaimed. "What is it?" asked Judy. "Jasper is coming--my dear, dear Jasper. See what he says--'Have heard the bad news--my deepest sympathy--expect me this evening.' Then I needn't write after all. Judy, Judy, I agree with you; I feel quite happy, even though it is the dreadful day when the blow has been struck." Judy did not say anything, she rose languidly to her feet. "Where are you going?" asked Hilda. "For a walk." "Why so?" "Miss Mills said that even though we were poor I was to take the fresh air," replied the child in a prim little voice, out of which all the spirit had gone. She kissed Hilda, but no longer in a rapturous, tempestuous fashion, and walked soberly out of the room. CHAPTER V. IN A GARDEN. I go like one in a dream, unbidden my feet know the way, To that garden where love stood in blossom with the red and white hawthorn of May. --MATHILDE BLIND. Aunt Marjorie had cried until she could cry no longer. Hers was a slighter nature than either Mr. Merton's or Hilda's. In consequence, perhaps, she was able to realize the blow which had come upon them more vividly and more quickly than either her brother or niece. Aunt Marjorie had taken a great pride in the pretty, well-ordered house. She was a capable, a kind, and a considerate mistress. Her servants worked well under her guidance. She was set in authority over them; they liked her rule, and acknowledged it with cheerful and willing service. No one could give such perfect little dinner-parties as Aunt Marjorie. She had a knack of finding out each of her guests' particular weaknesses with regard to the dinner-table. She was no diplomatist, and her conversation was considered prosy; but with Mr. Merton to act the perfect host and to lead the conversation into the newest intellectual channels, with Hilda to look sweet and gracious and beautiful, and with Aunt Marjorie to provide the dinner, nothing could have been a greater success than the little party which took place on an average once a week at the sociable Rectory. Now all these things were at an end. The servants must go; the large house--which had been added to from time to time by the Rector until it had lost all similitude to the ordinary small and cozy Rectory--the great house must remain either partly shut up or only half cleaned. There must be no more dinner-parties, and no nice carriage for Aunt Marjorie to return calls in. The vineries and conservatories must remain unheated during the winter; the gardeners must depart. Weeds must grow instead of flowers.