took one of his shy fits, and would have nothing to do with them.
Jack was a trying boy, though very dear.

With these things in her mind, Hildegarde was sauntering toward
the Ladies' Garden, on the day after the new arrival. This was a
favourite haunt of hers, and she was very apt to go there for a
season of meditation, or when she wanted to find Hugh. It was a
curious place,--an old, neglected, forgotten garden, with high,
unclipped box hedges, overhung by whispering larches. Hildegarde
had dreamed many a dream under those larches, sitting beside the
little stream that plashed and fell in a tiny rocky hollow, or
pacing up and down the grassy paths. For the child Hugh, too, this
place had a singular fascination, and he would hang for hours over
a certain still, brown pool at the foot of the garden, thinking
unutterable things, occasionally making a remark to his dog, but
for the most part silent. Knowing his ways, Hildegarde was the
more surprised, on this occasion, to hear the sound of voices in
lively conversation. Whom could the boy have picked up and brought
here? He had no friend of his own age; like herself, he was a lone
child; and it was with a little pang, which she almost laughed to
feel, that she drew near, and softly parted the branches that hung
between her and the pool. The first step was fatal, she thought,
and she was apparently condemned to be a peeper and an
eavesdropper for the rest of her days.

Hugh was sitting beside the pool, but not in his favourite
Narcissus-like attitude. His knees were well up in front of him,
his hands were clasped over them, and facing him, in precisely the
same position, was a boy in blue jean overalls, with a shock of
black hair, and bright, dark eyes.