"Because I love him better than he loves himself," cried Hilda, in her vehement way; "because I know his value better than he does. O Dora, how could you like any one else better than Edward?" "You must not ask me that, my darling. Those things cannot be explained. Fate willed it so." "And I suppose you are very happy in your grand house?" said Hilda sullenly. "I am very happy with the husband I love, Hilda. The grand house makes no difference. And now we are going to be good friends, aren't we, dear? and we are never going to talk of the past. How you have grown, Hilda!" "Out of all my frocks," answered Hilda, glancing contemptuously at her ankles. "It is perfectly degrading never to have a frock long enough for one--and never to have one's waist in the right place. The dressmaker says I have no waist yet. Dressmakers are so insulting to girls of my age. I think I shall positively trample upon my dressmaker when I am grown up, to revenge myself for all I have suffered from the tribe." "My Hilda, what an old-fashioned puss you have grown!" "How can I help being old-fashioned? I never see any young people. Edward never comes to The Spaniards now. You have driven him away." "Hilda, if we are to be friends--" "Well, I won't say it again; but you have, you know. It is awfully dull at home. I suppose I may say that?" "I hear you have a new governess. I hope you like her?" "You needn't hope that, for you know girls never do. She is a poor sheep of a thing, and I don't suppose I hate her quite so much as some girls hate their governesses. But she is dreadfully dreary. She makes her own gowns; and of an evening her needle goes stitch, stitch, stitch, in time to the ticking of the clock, while I practise my scales. I don't know which I hate most, the clock, or the piano, or the needle." "Poor Hilda, you must spend half your time with me in future. I shall call to-morrow, and ask your father's permission to have you at Penmorval as often as I like." "He won't refuse, if there's any consistency in him," replied Hilda, "for he is always grumbling about the noise I make, and about my sliding down the banisters. How did _he_ go downstairs I wonder, at my age? Those broad banisters at The Spaniards must have been made for sliding. But fathers are so inconsistent," concluded Hilda. "I shouldn't wonder if he wouldn't rather have me and my noise at home than allow me to be happy at Penmorval." "Let us hope that he will be reasonable," said Dora, smiling, "even though he is a father."