the rock—­oh, what a wonderful thing!—­a slender thread of crystal water came trickling out, as cold as ice and as clear as—­as itself; for nothing else could be so clear.  Bubble had made a little wooden trough to hold this fairy stream, and it gurgled along the trough and tumbled over the end of it with as much agitation and consequence as if it were the Niagara River in person.  And under the rock and beside the stream was a bank of moss and ferns most lovely to behold, most luxurious to sit upon.  On this bank sat Queen Hildegarde, with Bubble at her feet as usual; and beside her, in her chair, sat sweet Pink, looking more like a white rose than ever, with her fresh white dimity gown and her pretty hat.  Hilda was very busy over a mysterious-looking basket, from whose depths she now drew a large napkin, which she spread on the smooth green moss.  A plate of sandwiches came next, and some cold chicken, and six of Dame Hartley’s wonderful apple-turnovers.

“Now, Bubble,” said Hilda, “where are those birch-bark cups that you made for us?  I have brought nothing to drink out of.”

“I’ll fetch ’em, Miss Hildy,” cried Bubble, springing up with alacrity.  “I clean forgot ’em.  Say, Pink, shall I—? would you?” and he made sundry enigmatical signs to his sister.

“Yes, certainly,” said Pink; “of course.”

The boy ran off, and Hilda fell to twisting pine tassels together into a kind of fantastic garland, while Pink looked on with beaming eyes.

“Pink,” said Hilda, presently, “how is it that you speak so differently from Bubble and your mother,—­so much better English, I mean?  Have you—­but no; you told me you never went to school.”

“It was Faith,” said Pink, with a look of tender sadness,—­“Faith Hartley.  She wanted to be a teacher, and we studied together always.  Dear Faith!  I wish you had known her, Miss Graham.”

“You promised not to call me Miss Graham again, Pink,” said Hildegarde, reproachfully.  “It is absurd, and I won’t have it.”

“Well, Hilda, then,” said Pink, shyly.  “I wish you had known Faith, Hilda; you would have loved her very much, I know.”

“I am sure I should,” said Hilda, warmly.  “Tell me more about her.  Why did she want to teach when she was so happy at home?”

“She loved children very much,” said Pink, “and liked to be with them.  She thought that if she studied hard, she could teach them more than the district school teachers about here generally do, and in a better way.  I think she would have done a great deal of good,” she added, softly.

“Oh! why did she die?” cried Hilda.  “She was so much needed!  It broke her father’s heart, and her mother’s, and almost yours, my Pink.  Why was it right for her to die?”

“It was right, dear,” said Pink, gently; “that is all we can know.  ‘Why’ isn’t answered in this world.  My granny used to say,—­

     “’Never lie! 
       Never pry! 
       Never ask the reason why!’”