Who shall be first to speak?  Who shall catch the passing angel’s wing?  One minute, and it may have passed over.  I am not apologizing for Hilary the least in the world.  I do not know even if she considered whether it was her place or Robert’s to make the first advance.  Indeed, I fear she did not consider it at all, but just acted upon impulse, because it was so cruel, so heart breaking, to be at variance with him.  But if she had considered it I doubt not she would have done from duty exactly what she did by instinct—­crept up to him as he sat at the fireside, and laid her little hand on his.

“Robert, what makes you so angry with me still?”

“Not angry; I have no right to be.”

“Yes, you would have if I had really done wrong.  Have I?”

“You must judge for yourself.  For me—­I thought you loved me better than I find you do, and I made a mistake; that is all.”

Ay, he had made a mistake, but it was not that one.  It was the other mistake that men continually make about women; they can not understand that love is not worth having, that it is not love at all, but merely a selfish carrying out of selfish desires, if it blinds us to any other duty, or blunts in us any other sacred tenderness.  They can not see how she who is false in one relation may be false in another; and that, true as human nature’s truth, ay, and often fulfilling itself, is Brabantio’s ominous warning to Othello—­

        “Look to her, Moor! have a good eye to see;
        She has deceived her father, and may thee.”

Perhaps as soon as he had said the bitter word Mr. Lyon was sorry, any how, the soft answer which followed it thrilled through every nerve of the strong willed man—­a man not easily made angry, but when he was, very hard to move.

“Robert, will you listen to me for two minutes?”

“For as long as you like, only you must not expect me to agree with you.  You can not suppose I shall say it is right for you to forsake me.”

“I forsake you?  Oh, Robert!”

Words are not always the wisest arguments.  His “little woman” crept closer, and laid her head on his breast:  he clasped convulsively.

“Oh, Hilary, how could you wound me so?”

And in lieu of the discussion, a long silence brooded over the fireside—­the silence of exceeding love.

“Now, Robert, may I talk to you?”

“Yes.  Preach away, my little conscience.”

“It shall not be preaching, and it is not altogether for conscience,” said she smiling.  “You would not like me to tell you I did not love Johanna?”

“Certainly not.  I love her very much myself, only I prefer you, as is natural.  Apparently you do not prefer me, which may also be natural.”

“Robert!”

There are times when a laugh is better than a reproach; and something else, which need not be more particularly explained, is safer than either.  It is possible Hilary tried the experiment, and then resumed her “say.”