“Indeed he did!” replied Pink.  “Nothing that I could say would keep him from trying it; so I bandaged his ankle as well as I could, and off he started.  But he fainted twice before he got to the gate, so there was nothing for it but to crawl back again, and—­have the knees of his trousers mended.”

“Dear boy!” said Hilda, patting the curly head affectionately.  “Good, faithful boy!  I shall think a great deal more of it, Bubble, than if you had been able to walk all the way.  And, after all,” she added, “I am glad I had to do it myself,—­go down to the mill, I mean.  It is something to remember!  I would not have missed it.”

“No more wouldn’t I!” cried Bubble, enthusiastically.  “I’d ha’ done it for ye twenty times, ye know that, Miss Hildy; but I druther ha’ hed you do it;” and Hildegarde understood him perfectly.

The simple meal prepared and set out, Hilda bade farewell to her two friends, and flitted back to the farm.  Mrs. Chirk was to return in the evening, so she felt no further anxiety about them.

She found the farmer just returned from the village in high spirits.  Squire Gaylord had examined the diamonds, pronounced them of great value, and had readily advanced the money to pay off the mortgage, taking two or three large stones as security.  Lawyer Clinch had reluctantly received his money, and relinquished all claim upon Hartley’s Glen, though with a very bad grace.

“He kind o’ insinuated that the di’monds had prob’ly ben stole by Father or me, he couldn’t say which; and he said somethin’ about inquirin’ into the matter.  But Squire Gaylord shut him up pooty quick, by sayin’ thar was more things than that as might be inquired into, and if he began, others might go on; and Lawyer Clinch hadn’t nothin’ more to say after that.”

When dinner was over, and everything “redded up,” Hildegarde sent Dame Hartley upstairs to take a nap, and escorted the farmer as far as the barn on his way to the turnip-field.  Then, “the coast being clear,” she said to herself, “we will prepare for the tree-party.”

Accordingly, arming herself with a stout pruning-knife, she took her way to the “wood-lot,” which lay on the north side of the house.  The splendor of the trees, which were now in full autumnal glory, gave Hilda a sort of rapture as she approached them.  What had she ever seen so beautiful as this,—­the shifting, twinkling myriads of leaves, blazing with every imaginable shade of color above the black, straight trunks; the deep, translucent blue of the sky bending above; the golden light which transfused the whole scene; the crisp freshness of the afternoon air?  She wanted to sing, to dance, to do everything that was joyous and free.  But now she had work to do.  She visited all her favorite trees,—­the purple ash, the vivid, passionate maples, the oaks in their sober richness of murrey and crimson.  On each and all she levied contributions, cutting armful after armful, and carried them to the house,