The kindly cheerful tone made Hilary recover her balance immediately.

“I never thought of it before; the possibility of such a thing did not occur to me; but I hope I should not be ashamed of any honest work for which I was competent.  Only—­to serve in a shop—­to want upon strangers—­I am so horribly shy of strangers.”  And again the sensitive color rushed in a perfect tide over checks and forehead.

Miss Balquidder looked, half amused, compassionately at her.

“No, my dear, you would not make a good shop-woman, at least there are many who are better fitted for it than you; and it is my maxim that people should try to find out, and to do, only that which they are best fitted for.  If they did we might not have so many cases of proud despair and ambitious failure in the world.  It looks very grand and interesting sometimes to try and do what you can’t de, and then tear your hair, and think the world has ill-used you—­very grand, but very silly:  when all the while, perhaps, there is something else you can do thoroughly well; and the world will be exceedingly obliged to you for doing it, and not doing the other thing.—­As doubtless the world was to me, when, instead of being a mediocre musician, as I once wished to be—­it’s true, my dear—­I took to keeping one of the best ladies’ outfitting warehouses in London.”

While she talked her companion had quite recovered herself, and Miss Balquidder then went on to explain, what I will tell more briefly, if less graphically, than the good Scotchwoman, who, like all who have had a hard struggle in their youth, liked a little to dilate upon it in easy old age.  Hard as it was, however, it had ended early, for at fifty she found herself a woman of independent property, without kith or kin, still active, energetic, and capable of enjoying life.  She applied her mind to find out what she could best do with herself and her money.

“I might have bought a landed estate to be inherited by—­nobody; or a house in Belgravia, and an opera-box, to be shared by—­nobody.  We all have our pet luxuries; none of these were exactly mine.”

“No,” assented Hilary, somewhat abstractedly.  She was thinking—­if she could make a fortune, and—­and give it away!—­if, by any means, any honorable, upright heart could be made to understand that it did not signify, in reality, which side the money came from; that it sometimes showed deeper, the very deepest attachment, when a proud, poor man had self-respect and courage enough to say to a woman, “I love you, and I will marry you; I am not such a coward as to be afraid of your gold.”

But, oh! what a ridiculous dream!—­and she sat there, the penniless Hilary Leaf, listening to Miss Balquidder, the rich lady, whose life seemed so easy.  For the moment, perhaps, her own appeared hard.  But she had hope, and she was young.  She knew nothing of the years and years that had had to be lived through before those kind eyes looked as clear and cloudless as now; before the voice had gained the sweet evenness of tone which she liked to listen to, and felt that it made her quiet and “good,” almost like Johanna’s.