CHAPTER XVII“Hilary, you’re absolutely a born old maid!” Butterfly told her, one Sunday morning when they were all at breakfast.
Hilary smiled over her grapefruit. Craig looked at her keenly; her beautiful, white musician’s hands; her rich heavy braids of coppery hair; her white throat rising round and firm from the broad, frilled collar she wore; the wholesome fresh colours of cheeks and blue eyes and hair set off by the shadows in the dark blue velvet, and thought that he had never seen anything so domestic, so thoroughly womanly and wifely and motherly, in appearance, as Hilary Collier was at this moment.
“I don’t know what I’ve got, mental science, or new thought, or what!” Hilary admitted, gaily. “But I just feel as if anything thrilling might happen, down in Mount Holly, and I be i
