Hilda was very busy over a mysterious-looking basket, from whose depths she now drew a large napkin, which she spread on the smooth green moss.

A plate of sandwiches came next, and some cold chicken, and six of Dame Hartley's wonderful apple-turnovers.
"Now, Bubble," said Hilda, "where are those birch-bark cups that you made for us?
I have brought nothing to drink out of." "I'll fetch 'em, Miss Hildy," cried Bubble, springing up with alacrity.
"I clean forgot 'em.

Say, Pink, shall I--?
would you ?" and he made sundry enigmatical signs to his sister.
"Yes, certainly," said Pink; "of course." The boy ran off, and Hilda fell to twisting pine tassels together into a kind of fantastic garland, while Pink looked on with beaming eyes.
"Pink," said Hilda, presently, "how is it that you speak so differently from Bubble and your mother,--so much better English, I mean?
Have you--but no; you told me you never went to school." "It was Faith," said Pink, with a look of tender sadness,--"Faith Hartley.

She wanted to be a teacher, and we studied together always.
Dear Faith! I wish you had known her, Miss Graham." "You promised not to call me Miss Graham again, Pink," said Hildegarde, reproachfully.

"It is absurd, and I won't have it." "Well, Hilda, then," said Pink, shyly.