“Never hear of Ascott any more?” repeated Hilary; and for an instant she ceased to think of him as what he was—­swindler, forger, ungrateful to his benefactors, a disgrace to his home and family.  She saw only the boy Ascott, with his bright looks and pleasant ways, whom his aunts had brought up from his cradle, and loved with all his faults—­perhaps loved still.  “Oh, I must go home.  This will break Johanna’s heart!”

Mr. Peter Ascott possibly never had a heart, or it had been so stunted in its growth that it had never reached its fair development.  Yet he felt sorry in his way for the “young person,” who looked so deadly white, yet tried so hard not to make a scene, nay, when her two assistants came into the one little parlor, deported herself with steady composure; told them that she was obliged suddenly to go home, but would be back, if possible, the next morning.  Then, in that orderly, accurate way which Peter Ascott could both understand and appreciate, she proceeded to arrange with them about the shop and the house in case she might be detained till Monday.

“You’re not a bad woman of business,” said he, with a patronizing air.  “This seems a tidy little shop; I dare say you’ll get on in it.”

She looked at him with a bewildered air, and went on speaking to the young woman at the door.

“How much might your weekly receipts be in a place like this?  And what salary does Miss—­Miss What’s-her-name give to each of you?  You’re the head shop-woman, I suppose?”

Hilary made no answer:  she scarcely heard.  All her mind was full of but one thing:  “Never see Ascott any more!”

There came back upon her all the dreadful stories she had ever heard of lads who had committed forgery or some similar offense, and, in dread of punishment, had run away in despair, and never been heard of for years—­come to every kind of misery, perhaps even destroyed themselves.  The impression was so horribly vivid, that when, pausing an instant in putting her books in their places, she heard the door bell ring Hilary with difficulty repressed a scream.

But it was no messenger of dreadful tidings, it was only Elizabeth Hand; and the quiet fashion in which she entered showed Hilary at once that nothing dreadful had happened at home.

“Oh no, nothing has happened,” confirmed the girl.  “Only Miss Leaf sent me to see if you could come home to night instead of tomorrow.  She is quite well, that is, pretty well; but Mr. Leaf—­”

Here, catching sight of Miss Hilary’s visitor, Elizabeth stopped short.  Peter Ascott was one of her prejudices.  She determined in his presence to let out no more of the family affairs.

On his part, Mr. Ascott had always treated Elizabeth as people like him usually do treat servants, afraid to lose an inch of their dignity, lest it should be an acknowledgment of equal birth and breeding with the class from which they are so terribly ashamed to have sprung.  He regarded her now with a lordly air.