Otherwise they were not unhappy, she and her dearest sister.  Poor as they were, they were together, and their poverty had no sting.  They knew exactly how much they would receive monthly, and how much they ought to spend.  Though obliged to calculate every penny, still their income and expenses were alike certain; there was no anxiety about money matters, which of itself was an indescribable relief.  Also there was that best blessing—­peace at home.  Never in all her days had Johanna known such an easy life; sitting quietly in her parlor while Hilary was engaged in the shop below; descending to dinner, where she took the head of the table, and the young people soon learned to treat her with great respect and even affection; then waiting for the happy tea in their own room, and the walk afterward, in Richmond Park or along the Thames banks toward Twickenham.  Perhaps it was partly from the contrast to that weary year in London, but never, in any spring, had the air seemed so balmy, or the trees so green.  They brought back to Hilary’s face the youthful bloom which she had begun to lose; and, in degree, her youthful brightness, which had also become slightly overclouded.  Again she laughed and made her little domestic jokes, and regained her pretty ways of putting things, so that every thing always appeared to have a cheerful, and comical, side.

Also—­for while we are made as we are, with capacity for happiness, and especially the happiness of love, it is sure to be thus—­she had a little private sunbeam in her own heart, which brightened outside things.  After that sad letter from India which came on Selina’s wedding day, every succeeding one grew more cheerful, more demonstrative, nay, even affectionate; though still with that queer Scotch pride of his, that would ask for nothing till it could ask and have every thing, and give every thing in return—­the letters were all addressed to Johanna.

“What an advantage it is to be an old woman!” Miss Leaf would sometimes say, mischievously, when she received them.  But more often she said nothing, waiting in peace for events to develop themselves.  She did not think much about herself, and had no mean jealousy over her child; she knew that a righteous and holy love only makes all natural affections more sacred and more dear.

And Hilary?  She held her head higher and prouder; and the spring trees looked greener, and the river ran brighter in the sunshine.  Ah, Heaven pity us all! it is a good thing to have love in one’s life; it is a good thing, if only for a time, to be actually happy.  Not merely contented, but happy!

And so I will leave her, this little woman; and nobody need mourn over her because she is working too hard, or pity her because she is obliged to work; has to wear common clothes, and live in narrow rooms, and pass on her poor weary feet the grand carriages of the Richmond gentry, who are not a bit more well-born or well-educated than she; who never take the least notice of her, except sometimes to peer curious at the desk where she sits in the shop-corner, and wonder who “that young person with the rather pretty curls” can be.  No matter, she is happy.