piling them in splendid heaps on the shed-floor.  Then, after carefully laying aside a few specially perfect branches, she began the work of decoration.  Over the chimney-piece she laid great boughs of maple, glittering like purest gold in the afternoon light, which streamed broadly in through the windows.  Others—­scarlet, pink, dappled red, and yellow—­were placed over the windows, the doors, the dresser.  She filled the corners with stately oak-boughs, and made a bower of the purple ash in the bow-window,—­Faith’s window.  Then she set the tea-table with the best china, every plate and dish resting on a mat of scarlet leaves, while a chain of yellow ones outlined the shining square board.  A tiny scarlet wreath encircled the tea-kettle, and even the butter-dish displayed its golden balls beneath an arch of flaming crimson.  This done, she filled a great glass bowl with purple-fringed asters and long, gleaming sprays of golden-rod, and setting it in the middle of the table, stood back with her head a little on one side and surveyed the general effect.

“Good!” was her final comment; “very good!  And now for my own part.”

She gathered in her apron the branches first selected, and carried them up to her own room, where she proceeded to strip off the leaves and to fashion them into long garlands.  As her busy fingers worked, her thoughts flew hither and thither, bringing back the memories of the past few days.  Now she stood in the kitchen, pistol in hand, facing the rascal Simon Hartley; and she laughed to think how he had shaken and cowered before the empty weapon.  Now she was in the vault of the ruined mill, with a thousand horrors of darkness pressing on her, and only the tiny spark of light in her lantern to keep off the black and shapeless monsters.  Now she thought of the kind farmer, with a throb of pity, as she recalled the hopeless sadness of his face the night before.  Just the very night before, only a few hours; and now how different everything was!  Her heart gave a little happy thrill to think that she, Hilda, the “city gal,” had been able to help these dear friends in their trouble.  They loved her already, she knew that; they would love her more now.  Ah! and they would miss her all the more, now that she must leave them so soon.

Then, like a flash, her thoughts reverted to the plan she had been revolving in her mind two days before, before all these strange things had happened.  It was a delightful little plan!  Pink was to be sent to a New York hospital,—­the very best hospital that could be found; and Hildegarde hoped—­she thought—­she felt almost sure that the trouble could be greatly helped, if not cured altogether.  And then, when Pink was well, or at least a great, great deal better, she was to come and live at the farm, and help Nurse Lucy, and sing to the farmer, and be all the comfort—­no, not all, but nearly the comfort that Faith would have been if she had lived.  And Bubble—­yes!  Bubble must go to school,—­to a good school, where his bright, quick mind should learn everything there was to learn.  Papa would see to that, Hilda knew he would.  Bubble would delight Papa!  And then he would go to college, and by and by become a famous doctor, or a great lawyer, or—­oh!  Bubble could be anything he chose, she was sure of it.