Finally she sobbed herself to sleep,—­which was the very best thing she could have done.  By and by Dame Hartley peeped softly in, and seeing the child lying “all in a heap,” as she said to herself, with her pretty hair all tumbled about, brought a shawl and covered her carefully up, and went quietly away.

“Pretty lamb!” said the good woman.  “She’ll sleep all the afternoon now, like enough, and wake up feeling a good bit better,—­though I fear it will be a long time before your girlie feels at home with Nurse Lucy, Miss Mildred, dear!”

Sure enough, Hilda did sleep all the afternoon; and the soft summer twilight was closing round the farm-house when she woke with a start from a dream of home.

“Mamma!” she called quickly, raising herself from the bed.  For one moment she stared in amazement at the strange room, with its unfamiliar furnishing; but recollection came only too quickly.  She started up as a knock was heard at the door, and Dame Hartley’s voice said: 

“Hilda, dear, supper is ready, and I am sure you must be very hungry.  Will you come down with me?”

“Oh! thank you, presently,” said Hildegarde, hastily.  “I am not—­I haven’t changed my dress yet.  Don’t wait for me, please!”

“Dear heart, don’t think of changing your dress!” said Dame Hartley.  “You are a country lassie now, you know, and we are plain farm people.  Come down just as you are, there’s a dear!”

Hilda obeyed, only waiting to wash her burning face and hot, dry hands in the crystal-cold water which she poured out of the blue dragon pitcher.  Her hair was brushed back and tied with a ribbon, the little curls combed and patted over her forehead; and in a few minutes she followed her hostess down the narrow staircase, with a tolerably resigned expression on her pretty face.  To tell the truth, Hilda felt a great deal better for her long nap; moreover she was a little curious, and very, very hungry,—­and oh, how good something did smell!

Mrs. Hartley led the way into the kitchen, as the chief room at Hartley Farm was still called, though the cooking was now done by means of a modern stove in the back kitchen, while the great fireplace, with the crane hanging over it, and the brick oven by its side, was used, as a rule, only to warm the room.  At this season the room needed no warming, and feathery asparagus crowned the huge back-log, and nodded between the iron fire-dogs.  Ah! it was a pleasant room, the kitchen at Hartley Farm,—­wide and roomy, with deep-seated windows facing the south and west; with a floor of dark oak, which shone with more than a century of scrubbing.  The fireplace, oven, and cupboards occupied one whole side of the room.  Along the other ran a high dresser, whose shelves held a goodly array of polished pewter and brass, shining glass, and curious old china and crockery.  Overhead were dark, heavy rafters, relieved by the gleam of yellow “crook-neck” squashes, bunches of