This reference was too much for Elizabeth.  She burst out, not into actual crying, but into a smothered choke.

“If you donnot believe me, missus, I’d rather go home to mother.”

“I do believe you,” said Miss Leaf, kindly then waited till the pinafore, used as a pocket handkerchief, had dried up grief and restored composure.

“I can quite well understand the accident now; and I am sure if you had put it as plainly at first, my sister would have understood it too.  She was very much annoyed, and no wonder.  She will be equally glad to find she was mistaken.”

Here Miss Leaf paused, somewhat puzzled how to express what she felt it her duty to say, so as to be comprehended by the servant, and yet not let down the dignity of the family Hilary came to her aid.

“Miss Selina is sometimes hasty; but she means kindly always.  You must take care not to vex her, Elizabeth; and you must never answer her back again, however sharply she speaks.  It is not your business; you are only a child, and she is your mistress.”

“Is her?  I thought it was this ’un.”

The subdued clouding of Elizabeth’s face, and her blunt pointing to Miss Leaf as “this ’un.” were too much for Hilary’s gravity She was obliged to retreat to the press, and begin an imaginary search for a book.

“Yes, I am the eldest, and I suppose you may consider me specially as your mistress,” said Johanna, simply.”

“Remember always to come to me in any difficulty; and above all, to tell me every thing outright, as soon as it happens.  I can forgive you almost any fault, if you are truthful and honest; but there is one thing I never could forgive, and that is deception.  Now go with Miss Hilary, and she will teach you how to make the porridge for supper.”

Elizabeth obeyed silently; she had apparently a great gift for silence.  And she was certainly both obedient and willing; not stupid, either, though a nervousness of temperament which Hilary was surprised to find in so big and coarse-looking a girl, made her rather awkward at first.  However, she succeeded in pouring out and carrying into the parlor, without accident, three platefuls of that excellent condiment which formed the frugal supper of the family; but which they ate, I grieve to say, in an orthodox southern fashion, with sugar or treacle, until Mr. Lyon—­greatly horrified thereby—­had instituted his national custom of “supping” porridge with milk.

It may be a very unsentimental thing to confess, but Hilary, who even at twenty was rather practical than poetical, never made the porridge without thinking of Robert Lyon, and the day when he first staid to supper, and ate it, or as he said and was very much laughed at, ate “them” with such infinite relish Since then, whenever he came, he always asked for his porridge, saying it carried him back to his childish days.  And Hilary, with that curious pleasure that women take in waiting upon any one unto whom the heart is ignorantly beginning to own the allegiance, humble yet proud, of Miranda to Ferdinand: