of it. No one, not even Sally, could interfere with his sport.
Carew, too, hunted. Hildegarde rather hated it all. Sh didn't like to see things killed. Yet there was something to be said for the out-of-door aspect, the picturesqueness, the inherited love of sport which came to these men of English descent.
As for herself, she was tied up with engagements. Everybody was entertaining Sally, and Carew's daughter was, of course, included in the invitations. Back and forth the two girls swung between Round Hill and Baltimore, with Hildegarde troubled about the expense but enjoying it all none the less. Her father, when now and then she spoke to him about it, urged her not to worry. Winslow, he said, was putting him on to some good things which would soon be paying dividends.
Since their days at the farm together she had not seen Crispin, but his letters came regularly, whether she answered them or not.
"I haven't a bit of pride where you are concerned, Hildegarde. If you won't write, you won't, and that's the end of it. But I've got things to say, and if you don't want to read, you needn't. And the latest thing simply has to be told—I've bought a loveseat and a footstool for the house. They have crooked, carved legs and are done up in faded rose brocade, and they are, as you would say, 'adorable.' That's all the furniture so far, except the little photograph of you and your mother on the mantel. When I am feeling a bit down, I build a fire and sit on the seat and imagine you are beside me, with your little slippers on the