had often come, prosaically enough perhaps, into her head, and prevented her from spoiling her little hands with unnecessarily rough work, or carelessly passing down ill streets and by-ways, where she knew Robert Lyon, had he been in London, would never have allowed her to go.  Now what did such things signify?  What need of taking care of herself?  These were all superficial, external disgraces, the real disgrace was within.  The plague-spot had burst out anew; it seemed as if this day were the recommencement of that bitter life of penury, misery, and humiliation, familiar through three generations to the women of the Leaf family.

It appeared like a fate.  No use to try and struggle out of it, stretching her arms up to Robert Lyon’s tender, honest, steadfast heart, there to be sheltered, taken care of, and made happy.  No happiness for her!  Nothing but to go on enduring and enduring to the end.

Such was Hilary’s first emotion; morbid perhaps, yet excusable.  It might have lasted longer—­though in her healthy nature it could not have lasted very long—­had not the reaction come, suddenly and completely, by the opening of the parlor door, and the appearance of Miss Leaf.

Miss Leaf—­pale, indeed; but neither alarmed nor agitated, who hearing somehow that her child had arrived, had hastily dressed herself, and come down stairs, in order not to frighten Hilary.  And as she took her in her arms, and kissed her with those mother-like kisses, which were the sweetest Hilary had as yet ever known—­the sharp anguish went out of the poor girl’s heart.

“Oh, Johanna!  I can bear any thing as long as I have you”

And so in this simple and natural way the miserable secret about Ascott came out.

Being once out, it did not seem half so dreadful; nor was its effect nearly so serious as Miss Hilary and Elizabeth had feared.—­Miss Leaf bore it wonderfully; she might almost have known it beforehand; they would have thought she had, but that she said decidedly she had not.

“Still you need not have minded telling me; though it was very good and thoughtful of you Elizabeth.  You have gone through a great deal for our sakes, my poor girl.”

Elizabeth burst into one smothered sob the first and the last.

“Nay,” said Miss Leaf, very kindly; for this unwonted emotion in their servant moved them both.  “You shall tell me the rest another time.  Go down now, and get Miss Hilary some breakfast.”

When Elizabeth had departed the sisters turned to one another.  They did not talk much; where was the use of it?  They both knew the worst, both as to facts and fears.

“What must be done.  Johanna?”

Johanna, after a long pause, said, “I see but one thing—­to get him home.”

Hilary started up, and walked to and fro along the room.

“No, not that.  I will never agree to it.—­We can not help him.  He does not deserve helping.  If the debts were for food now, or any necessaries; but for mere luxuries, mere fine clothes; it is his tailor who has arrested him, you know.  I would rather have gone in rags!  I would rather see us all in rags!—­It’s mean, selfish, cowardly, and I despise him for it.  Though he is my own flesh and blood, I despise him.”