Mount Vernon, so that we'll be neighbors of George Washington. I motored down and saw the sign For Sale—and it seemed so absolutely ours with a grove of pine trees back of it—and the river in front—and a garden. It isn't paid for, of course, only a part. But I shall work for the rest, and be glad to do it, and when I meet the shade of George Washington coming down the road, I shall say to him, 'It is all very well to be the father of your country, but I'd rather be the husband of Hildegarde Carew!'"
His mood of deep seriousness had passed. Hildegarde found herself talking to him in the old carefree fashion. When they walked through the grove, she tucked her arm in his and in the dark brushed her cheek against his coat. He was a dear and a darling, but she didn't want to marry him. She didn't want to marry anybody. She wanted things to be as they had once been with her father loving her and leaning on her for companionship. Perhaps, when she got back to Round Hill, she might find him like that. He might even let her be friends again with Crispin.·
Crispin stayed over Sunday, and on Monday morning Hildegarde was left alone with her aunts. The routine of farm life began again. It had now to do with harvest-time—fruits and vegetables to be gathered and stored. It was a picturesque crop, and Hildegarde rather enjoyed the days. In the golden September light she stood on a ladder in the orchard and picked apples, or clipped grapes from the vines on the south hill.
The nights were the worst—deadly quiet settled down after supper. Her aunts did their best to stay
