Will it inflict a death blow upon any admiration she may have excited, this brave little Hilary, who fought through the world by herself; who did not shrink from traversing London streets alone at seemly and unseemly hours; from going into sponging houses and debtor’s prisons; from earning her own livelihood, even in a shop—­if I confess that Robert Lyon, being angry with her, justly or unjustly, and she, looking upon him as her future husband, her “lord and master” if you will, whom she would one day promise, and intended, literally “to obey”—­she thought it her duty, not only her pleasure but her duty, to be the first to make reconciliation between them? ay, and at every sacrifice, except that of principle.

And I am afraid, in spite of all that “strong-minded” women may preach to the contrary, that all good women will have to do this to all men who stand in any close relation toward them, whether fathers, husbands, brothers, or lovers, if they wish to preserve peace, and love, and holy domestic influence; and that so it must be to the end of time.

Miss Leaf might have discovered that something was amiss; but she was too wise to take any notice, and being more than usually feeble that day, immediately after tea she went to lie down.  When Hilary followed her, arranged her pillows, and covered her up, Johanna drew her child’s face close to her and whispered,

“That will do, love.  Don’t stay with me.  I would not keep you from Robert on any account.”

Hilary all but broke down; and yet the words made her stronger firmer; set more clearly before her the solemn duty which young folks in love are so apt to forget, that there can be no blessing on the new tie, if for any thing short of inevitable necessity they let go one link of the old.

Yet, Robert—­ It was such a new and dreadful feeling to be standing outside the door and shrink from going in to him; to see him rise up formally, saying, “Perhaps he had better leave;” and have to answer with equal formality, “Not unless you are obliged;” and for him then, with a shallow pretence of being at ease, to take up a book and offer to read aloud to her while she worked.  He—­who used always to set his face strongly against all sewing of evenings—­because it deprived him temporarily of the sweet eyes, and the little soft hand.  Oh, it was hard, hard!

Nevertheless, she sat still and tried to listen; but the words went in at one ear and out at the other; she retained nothing.  By-and-by her throat began to swell, and she could not see her needle and thread.  Yet still he went on reading.  It was only when, by some blessed chance, turning to reach a paper cutter, he caught sight of her, that he closed the book and looked discomposed; not softened, only discomposed.