“I wonder,” said Johanna, thoughtfully, “if we shall have to make a change.”

“A change!” It almost pained the elder sister to see how the younger brightened up at the word.  “Where to—­London?  Oh, I have so longed to go and live in London!  But I thought you would not like it, Johanna.”

That was true.  Miss Leaf, whom feeble health had made prematurely old, would willingly have ended her days in the familiar town; but Hilary was young and strong.  Johanna called to mind the days when she too had felt that rest was only another name for dullness; and when the most difficult thing possible to her was what seemed now so easy—­to sit down and endure.

Besides, unlike herself, Hilary had her life all before her.  It might be a happy life, safe in a good man’s tender keeping; those unfailing letters from India seemed to prophecy that it would.  But no one could say.  Miss Leaf’s own experience had not led her to place much faith in either men or happiness.

Still, whatever Hilary’s future might be, it would likely be a very different one from that quiet, colorless life of hers.  And as she looked at her younger sister, with the twilight glow on her face—­they were taking an evening stroll up and down the terrace—­Johanna hoped and prayed it might be so.  Her own lot seemed easy enough for herself; but for Hilary—­she would like to see Hilary something better than a poor schoolmistress at Stowbury.

No more was said at that time, but Johanna had the deep, still, Mary-like nature, which “kept” things, and “pondered them in her heart.”  So that when the subject came up again she was able to meet it with that sweet calmness which was her especial characteristic—­the unruffled peace of a soul which no worldly storms could disturb overmuch, for it had long since cast anchor in the world unseen.

The chance which revived the question of the Great Metropolitan Hegira, as Hilary called it, was a letter from Mr. Ascott, as follows: 

“Miss leaf.  Madam,—­I shall be obliged by your informing me if it is your wish, as it seems to be your nephew’s, that instead of returning to Stowbury, he should settle in London as a surgeon and general practitioner?  His education complete, I consider that I have done my duty by him; but I may assist him occasionally still, unless he turns out—­as his father did before him—­a young man who prefers being helped to helping himself, in which case I shall have nothing more to do with him.  I remain, Madam, your obedient servant,
    Peter Ascott.”

The sisters read this letter, passing it round the table, none of them apparently liking to be the first to comment upon it.  At length Hilary said:  “I think that reference to poor Henry is perfectly brutal.”

“And yet he was very kind to Henry.  And if it had not been for his common sense in sending poor little Ascott and the nurse down to Stowbury the baby might have died.  But you don’t remember any thing of that time, my dear,” said Johanna, sighing.