She was then just thirty:  not too old to look forward to woman’s natural destiny, a husband and children of her own.  But years slipped by, and she was Miss Leaf still.  What matter!  Hilary was her daughter.

Johanna’s pride in her knew no bounds.  Not that she showed it much; indeed she deemed it a sacred duty not to show it; but to make believe her “child” was just like other children.  But she was not.  Nobody ever thought she was—­even in externals.—­Fate gave her all those gifts which are sometimes sent to make up for the lack of worldly prosperity.  Her brown eyes were as soft a doves’ eyes, yet could dance with fun and mischief if they chose; her hair, brown also, with a dark-red shade in it, crisped itself in two wavy lines over her forehead, and then turn bled down in two glorious masses, which Johanna, ignorant, alas! of art, called very “untidy,” and labored in vain to quell under combs, or to arrange in proper, regular curls Her features—­well, they too, were good; better than those unartistic people had any idea of—­better even than Selina’s, who in her youth had been the belle of the town.  But whether artistically correct or not, Johanna, though she would on no account have acknowledged it, believed solemnly that there was not such a face in the whole world as little Hillary’s.

Possibly a similar idea dawned upon the apparently dull mind of Elizabeth Hand, for she watched her youngest mistress intently, from kitchen to parlor, and from parlor back to kitchen; and once when Miss Hilary stood giving information as to the proper abode of broom, bellows, etc., the little maid gazed at her with such admiring observation that the scuttle she carried was titled, and the coals were strewn all over the kitchen floor.  At which catastrophe Miss Leaf looked miserable.  Miss Selina spoke crossly, and Ascott, who just then came in to his tea, late as usual, burst into a shut of laughter.

It was as much as Hilary could do to help laughing herself, she being too near her nephew’s own age always to maintain a dignified aunt-like attitude, but nevertheless, when, having disposed of her sisters in the parlor, she coaxed Ascott into the school-room, and insisted upon his Latin being done—­she helping him, Aunt Hilary scolded him well, and bound him over to keep the peace toward the new servant.

“But she is such a queer one.  Exactly like a South Sea Islander.  When she stood with her grim, stolid countenance, contemplating the coals oh, Aunt Hilary, how killing she was!”

And the regular, rollicking, irresistible boy-laugh broke out again.

“She will be great fun.  Is she really to stay?”

“I hope so,” said Hilary, trying to be grave.  “I hope never again to see Aunt Johanna cleaning the stairs, and getting up to light the kitchen fire of winter mornings, as she will do if we have not a servant to do it for her.  Don’t you see, Ascott?”

“Oh, I see,” answered the boy, carelessly, “But don’t bother me, please.  Domestic affairs are for women, not men.”