she changed so much? She had thought she might find her mother's spirit waiting—the old sense of peace. But now she was aware only of the difference from her chintz-bright chamber at Round Hill, the tall ceilings and gilt garlands of her boudoir in Paris.
Crispin, coming up with the bags, set them down on the threshold. "Glad to get back?" he asked in his quick young voice.
"I don't know."
He glanced at her, saw the shadow on her face, and said the thing which was best for her.
"You won't know how you feel until you get your supper. Come on down and help us eat that young pig. I'll be ashamed of you if you don't have an appetite after your ride."
She found, as she sat at the table, that it wasn't so bad after all. The food was delicious, although there was too much of it, and it was heart-warming to have the three of them hanging on her words, eager to hear of her adventures.
"Crispin used to read us parts of your letters. We were always so glad when he came."
Hildegarde recalled with compunction the scantiness of her correspondence with the two old women. It seemed dreadful that neither of them had known anything but life on the farm. Her soul shuddered away from the thought of such an existence. As for herself, she couldn't stand it. She simply couldn't.
Her aunts insisted that while they washed the dishes, she should go for a walk with Crispin. So the two young people took their way along the familiar paths,
