Mr. Graham always spoke of his wife’s dressing-room as “the citadel.”  It was absolutely impregnable, he said.  In the open field of the drawing-room or the broken country of the dining-room it might be possible—­he had never known such a thing to occur, but still it might be possible—­for the commander-in-chief to sustain a defeat; but once intrenched behind the walls of the citadel, horse, foot, and dragoons might storm and charge upon her, but they could not gain an inch.  Not an inch, sir!  True it was that Mrs. Graham always felt strongest in this particular room.  She laughed about it, but acknowledged the fact.  Here, on the wall, hung a certain picture which was always an inspiration to her.  Here, on the shelf above her desk, were the books of her heart, the few tried friends to whom she turned for help and counsel when things puzzled her. (Mrs. Graham was never disheartened.  She didn’t believe there was such a word.  She was only “puzzled” sometimes, until she saw her way and her duty clear before her, and then she went straight forward, over a mountain or through a stone wall, as the case might be.) Here, in the drawer of her little work-table, were some relics,—­a tiny, half-worn shoe, a little doll, a sweet baby face laughing from an ivory frame:  the insignia of her rank in the great order of sorrowing mothers; and these, perhaps, gave her that great sympathy and tenderness for all who were in trouble which drew all sad hearts towards her.

And so, on this occasion, the little woman had sat for a few moments looking at the pictured face on the wall, with its mingled majesty and sweetness; had peeped into the best-beloved of all books, and said a little prayer, as was her wont when “puzzled,” before she sent the message to Hilda,—­for she knew that she must sorely hurt and grieve the child who was half the world to her; and though she did not flinch from the task, she longed for strength and wisdom to do it in the kindest and wisest way.

“Hilda, dear,” she said gently, when they were seated together on the sofa, hand in hand, with each an arm round the other’s waist, as they loved best to sit,—­“Hilda, dear, I have something to say that will not please you; something that may even grieve you very much at first.”  She paused, and Hilda rapidly reviewed in her mind all the possibilities that she could think of.  Had anything happened to the box of French dresses which was on its way from Paris?  Had a careless servant broken the glass of her fernery again?  Had Aunt Emily been saying disagreeable things about her, as she was apt to do?  She was about to speak, but at that moment, like a thunderbolt, the next words struck her ear:  “We have decided not to take you with us to California.”  Amazed, wounded, indignant, Hilda could only lift her great gray eyes to meet the soft violet ones which, full of unshed tears, were fixed tenderly upon her.  Mrs. Graham continued:  “Your father and I both feel, my darling, that this long, fatiguing journey, in the full heat of summer, would be the worst possible thing for you.  You have not been very well lately, and it is most important that you should lead a quiet, regular, healthy life for the next few months.  We have therefore made arrangements to leave you—­”