Though not a great beauty, Hildegarde was certainly a remarkably pretty and even distinguished-looking girl; and "being neither blind nor a fool," she soliloquized, "where is the harm in acknowledging it ?" But the next moment the thought came: "What difference will it make, in a stupid farm-house, whether I am pretty or not?
I might as well be a Hottentot!" and with the "quiet and cold" look darkening over her face, she went slowly down stairs.
Her father met her with a kiss and clasp of the hand even warmer than usual.
"Well, General!" he said, in a voice which insisted upon being cheery, "marching orders, eh?
Marching orders! Break up camp! boot, saddle, to horse and away! Forces to march in different directions, by order of the commander-in-chief." But the next moment he added, in an altered tone: "My girl, mamma knows best; remember that! She is right in this move, as she generally is.

Cheer up, darling, and let us make the last evening a happy one!" Hilda tried to smile, for who _could_ be angry with papa?
She made a little effort, and the father and mother made a great one,--_how_ great she could not know; and so the evening passed, better than might have been expected.
The evening passed, and the night, and the next day came; and it was like waking from a strange dream when Hilda found herself in a railway train, with her father sitting beside her, and her mother's farewell kiss yet warm on her cheek, speeding over the open country, away from home and all that she held most dear.

Her dressing-bag, with her umbrella neatly strapped to it, was in the rack overhead, the check for her trunk in her pocket.

Could it all be true?
She tried to listen while her father told her of the happy days he had spent on his grandfather's farm when he was a boy; but the interest was not real, and she found it hard to fix her mind on what he was saying.

What did she care about swinging on gates, or climbing apple-trees, or riding unruly colts! She was not a boy, nor even a tomboy.