Crawford, F. Marion (Francis Marion), 1854-1909 / 2008-07-31 00:00:00

The sun does not give half the light in the Black Forest
that he gives elsewhere. As Hilda had never, within her recollection,
seen an open plain, much less a city, her idea of the world beyond
those leagues of trees in which she lived was not a very accurate one.
She could hardly guess what the streets of a great town were like, or
what effect a crowd of civilised people would produce upon her sight.
And yet she was far from ignorant. There were books enough left at
Sigmundskron for her education, and the baroness had done what was in
her power to impart such instruction as she could command. Hilda had
probably read as many books as most girls of her age, and had read them
more carefully, but she was very far from loving study for its own
sake. Her time, too, was occupied in other ways, for she and her mother
did most things for themselves, as was to be expected in a household
where want reigned supreme over the hours of every day, from sunrise to
sunset.
The necessity for maintaining appearances was small indeed, but such as
it was, neither mother nor daughter could avoid it. No one could
predict what day the Greifensteins would choose for one of their
occasional visits, and in the time of the vacations no one could
foresee when Greif might make his appearance, striding over the wooded
hills with his gun and his dog to spend a quiet afternoon with Hilda in
their favourite sunny corner at the foot of the dismantled tower. When
poverty is to be concealed, his shadow must not be caught lurking at
the door by chance visitors.
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