The silent girl of old days, whose countenance wore the stillness of an unsunned pool, as she listened with reverence to his lessons, had blossomed into the calm, stately woman, before whose presence he felt rebuked he knew not why, upon whose face lay slumbering thought, ever ready to wake into life and motion.  Dared he love her?  Dared he tell her that he loved her?  Dared he, so poor, so worthless, seek for himself such a world’s treasure? —­ He might have known that worth does not need honour; that its lowliness is content with ascribing it.

Some of my readers may be inclined to think that I hide, for the sake of my hero —­ poor little hero, one of God’s children, learning to walk —­ an inevitable struggle between his love and his pride; inasmuch as, being but a tutor, he might be expected to think the more of his good family, and the possibility of his one day coming to honour without the drawback of having done anything to merit it, a title being almost within his grasp; while Margaret was a ploughman’s daughter, and a lady’s maid.  But, although I know more of Hugh’s faults than I have thought it at all necessary to bring out in my story, I protest that, had he been capable of giving the name of love to a feeling in whose presence pride dared to speak, I should have considered him unworthy of my poor pen.  In plain language, I doubt if I should have cared to write his story at all.

He gathered together, as I have said, the few memorials of the old ship gone down in the quiet ocean of time; paid one visit of sorrowful gladness to his parent’s grave, over which he raised no futile stone —­ leaving it, like the forms within it, in the hands of holy decay; and took his road —­ whither?  To Margaret’s home —­ to see old Janet; and to go once to the grave of his second father.  Then he would return to the toil and hunger and hope of London.

What made Hugh go to Turriepuffit?  His love to Margaret?  No.  A better motive even than that:  —­ Repentance.  Better I mean for Hugh as to the individual occasion; not in itself; for love is deeper than repentance, seeing that without love there can be no repentance.  He had repented before; but now that he haunted in silence the regions of the past, the whole of his history in connection with David returned on him clear and vivid, as if passing once again before his eyes and through his heart; and he repented more deeply still.  Perhaps he was not quite so much to blame as he thought himself.  Perhaps only now was it possible for the seeds of truth, which David had sown in his heart, to show themselves above the soil of lower, yet ministering cares.  They had needed to lie a winter long in the earth.  Now the keen blasts and grinding frosts had done their work, and they began to grow in the tearful prime.  Sorrow for loss brought in her train sorrow for wrong —­ a sister more solemn still, and with a deeper blessing in the voice of her loving farewell. —­ It is a