So Hilary sat, glad to have a quiet hour, not to grieve in, but to lay out the details of a plan which had been maturing in her mind all week, and which she meant definitely to propose to Johanna when she went home next day.  It would cost her something to do so, and she had had some hesitations as to the scheme itself, until at last she threw them all to the winds, as an honest-hearted, faithful and faithfully-trusting woman would.  Her plan was, that they should write to the only real friend the family had—­the only good man she believed in—­stating plainly their troubles and difficulties about their nephew; asking his advice, & possibly his help.  He might know of something—­some opening for a young surgeon in India, or some temporary appointment for the voyage out and home, which might catch Ascott’s erratic and easily attracted fancy:  give him occupation for the time being, and at least detach him from his present life, with all its temptations and dangers.

Also, it might result in bringing the boy again under that influence which had been so beneficial to him while it lasted, and which Hilary devoutly believed was the best influence in the world.  Was it unnatural, if, mingled with an earnest desire for Ascott’s good, was an under-lying delight that that good should be done to him by Robert Lyon?

So when her plan was made, even to the very words in which she meant to unfold it to Johanna, and the very form in which Johanna should write the letter, she allowed herself a few brief minutes to think of him—­Robert Lyon—­to call up his eyes, his voice, his smile; to count, for the hundreth time, how many months—­one less than twenty-four, so she could not say years now—­it would be before he returned to England.  Also, to speculate when and where they would first meet, and how he would speak the one word—­all that was needful to change “liking” into “love,” and “friend” into “wife.”

They had so grown together during so many years not the less so during these years of absence, that it seemed as if such a change would hardly make any difference.  And yet—­and yet—­as she sat and sewed, wearied with her day’s labors, sad and perplexed, she thought—­if only, by some strange magic, Robert Lyon were standing opposite, holding open his arms, ready and glad to take her and all her cares to his heart, how she would cling there! how closely she would creep to him, weeping with joy and content, neither afraid nor ashamed to let him see how dearly she loved him!

Only a dream! ah, only a dream! and she started from it at the sharp sound of the doorbell—­started, blushing and trembling, as if it had been Robert Lyon himself, when she knew it was only her two young assistants whom she had allowed to go out to tea in the neighborhood.  So she settled herself to her work again; put all her own thoughts by in their little private corners, and waited for the entrance and the harmless gossip of these two orphan girls, who were already beginning to love her, and make a friend of her, and toward whom she felt herself quite an elderly and responsible person.  Poor little Hilary!  It seemed to be her lot always to take care of somebody or other.  Would it ever be that any body should take care of her?