Very gently the three girls laid the white covering back over the little dolls, who lay quiet and rosy, and seemed as content as ever was Sleeping Beauty in her tower.  They peeped into the chest of drawers, and found it full of dainty frocks and petticoats, all exquisitely made; there was even a pile of tiny handkerchiefs, marked “Annabel” and “Celia.”  This sight made Gertrude’s tears flow afresh; she was a tender-hearted child, and tears fell from her eyes as softly and naturally as dew from a flower.

When all was seen, they closed the little window, and with a mute farewell to the sweet guardian spirit of the little place,—­the girl who had loved her dolls, and so made herself dear to all other girls,—­the three withdrew, and softly, reluctantly drew the sliding panel after them.

“I shall not forget,” whispered Hildegarde, who was the last to leave the secret chamber; “I shall come sometimes, Hester dear, and sit there, just I myself, and we will talk together, the dolls and I. I shall not forget.”

The panel slid into its place with a faint click; no sign was left, only the white wainscoting, one panel like another, and the crooked stair winding up to the open, airy room above.

CHAPTER V.

Tea at Roseholme.

On a certain lovely evening in June, Hildegarde left the house at six o’clock, or, to be precise, at five minutes before six, and took the path that led to Roseholme.  It was her eighteenth birthday, and the Colonel was giving her a tea-party.  This was a great event, for many years had passed since guests had been invited to Roseholme.  The good Colonel, always delighted to be with Hildegarde and her mother, had still kept up his solitary habits at home, and save for little Hugh, who flitted about the dark old house like a sunbeam, it was a lonely place.  Now, however, the Colonel had roused himself and declared that he, and no other, should give his young friend her birthday treat.  The Merryweathers were invited, all except the two youngest, Will and Kitty.  Mrs. Grahame was already there, having gone over early, at the Colonel’s request, to help in arranging certain little matters which he considered beyond the province of his good housekeeper; and now it was time for the “beneficiary,” as Gerald Merryweather called her, to follow.

Hildegarde was dressed in white, of course; she always wore white in the evening.  Miss Loftus, her neighbour in the new stone house, sometimes expressed wonder at that Grahame girl’s wearing white so much, when they hadn’t means to keep so much as a pony to carry their mail; her wonder might have been set at rest if she could have peeped into the airy kitchen at Braeside, and seen Hildegarde singing at her ironing-table in the early morning, before the sun was hot.  Auntie, the good black cook, washed the dresses generally, though Hildegarde could do that, too, if she was “put