Is not this indeed a bower, wherein a girl ought to be happy? the bird in the window thinks his blue and gold cage the finest house in the world, and sings as heartily and cheerily as if he had been in the wide green forest; but his mistress does not sing.  She sits in the easy-chair, with a book upside-down in her lap, and frowns,—­actually frowns, in a forget-me-not bower!  There is not much the matter, really.  Her head aches, that is all.  Her German lesson has been longer and harder than usual, and her father was quite right about the caramels; there is a box of them on the table now, within easy reach of the slim white hand with its forget-me-not ring of blue turquoises. (I do not altogether agree with Mr. Graham about hanging the caramel-maker, but I should heartily like to burn all his wares.  Fancy a great mountain of caramels and chocolate-creams and marrons glaces piled up in Union Square, for example, and blazing away merrily,—­that is, if the things would burn, which is more than doubtful.  How the maidens would weep and wring their hands while the heartless parents chuckled and fed the flames with all the precious treasures of Maillard and Huyler!  Ah! it is a pleasant thought, for I who write this am a heartless parent, do you see?)

As I said before, Hilda had no suspicion of the plot which her parents were concocting.  She knew that her father was obliged to go to San Francisco, being called suddenly to administer the estate of a cousin who had recently died there, and that her mother and—­as she supposed—­herself were going with him to offer sympathy and help to the widow, an invalid with three little children.  As to the idea of her being left behind; of her father’s starting off on a long journey without his lieutenant-general; of her mother’s parting from her only child, whom she had watched with tender care and anxiety since the day of her birth,—­such a thought never came into Hilda’s mind.  Wherever her parents went she went, as a matter of course.  So it had always been, and so without doubt it always would be.  She did not care specially about going to California at this season of the year,—­in fact she had told her bosom friend, Madge Everton, only the day before, that it was “rather a bore,” and that she should have preferred to go to Newport.  “But what would you?” she added, with the slightest shrug of her pretty shoulders.  “Papa and mamma really must go, it appears; so of course I must go too.”

“A bore!” repeated Madge energetically, replying to the first part of her friend’s remarks.  “Hilda, what a very singular girl you are!  Here I, or Nelly, or any of the other girls would give both our ears, and our front teeth too, to make such a trip; and just because you can go, you sit there and call it ‘a bore!’” And Madge shook her black curls, and opened wide eyes of indignation and wonder at our ungrateful heroine.  “I only wish,” she added, “that you and I could be changed into each other, just for this summer.”