But Hilda tightened her grasp on the handle of her dressing-bag, and closed her eyes with a slight shiver of dislike and dread.

She would not look at this place.

It was the hateful prison where she was to be shut up for three long, weary, dismal months.

The sun might shine on it, the trees might wave, and the wild-roses open their slender pink buds; it would be nothing to her.

She hated it, and nothing, nothing, _nothing_ could _ever_ make her feel differently.