The minute history of this painful day I do not mean to tell.  Hilary never told it till, years after, she wept it out upon a bosom that could understand the whole, and would take good care that while the life beat in his she never should go through the like again.

Ascott came home—­that is, was brought home—­very humbled, contrite, and grateful.  There was no one to meet him but his Aunt Johanna, and she just kissed him quietly, and bade him come over to the fire; he was shivering, and somewhat pale.  He had even two tears in his handsome eyes, the first Ascott had been known to shed since he was a boy.  That he felt a good deal, perhaps as much as was in his nature to feel, there could be no doubt.  So his two aunts were glad and comforted; gave him his tea and the warmest seat at the hearth; said not a harsh word to him, but talked to him about indifferent things.—­Tea being over, Hilary was anxious to get every thing painful ended before Selina came home—­Selina, who, they felt by instinct, had now a separate interest from themselves, and had better not be told this sad story if possible; so she asked her nephew “if he remembered what they had to do this evening?”

“Had to do?  Oh, Aunt Hilary, I’m so tired! can’t you let me be quiet?  Only this one night.  I promise to bring you everything on Monday.”

“Monday will be too late.  I shall be away.  And you know you can’t do without my excellent arithmetic,” she added with a faint smile.  “Now, Ascott, be a good boy—­fetch down all those bills and let us go over them together.”

“His debts came to more than the thirty pounds then?” said his Aunt Johanna, when he was gone.

“Yes.  But the ring sold for fifty.”  And Hilary drew to the table, got writing materials, and sat waiting, with a dull, silent patience in her look, at which Johanna sighed and said no more.

The aunt and nephew spent some time in going over that handful of papers, and approximating to the sum total, in that kind of awful arithmetic when figures cease to be mere figures, but grow into avenging monsters, bearing with them life or death.

“Is that all!  You are quite sure it is all?” said Hilary at last, pointing to the whole amount, and looking steadily into Ascott’s eyes.

He flushed up, and asked what she meant by doubting his word?

“Not that, but you might easily have made a mistake; you are so careless about money matters.”

“Ah, that’s it.  I’m just careless, and so I come to grief.  But I never mean to be careless any more.  I’ll be as precise as you.  I’ll balance my books every week—­every day if you like—­exactly as you do at that horrid shop, Aunt Hilary.”

So he was rattling on, but Hilary stopped him by pointing to the figures.

“You see, this sum is more than we expected.  How is it to be met?  Think for yourself.  You are a man now.”

“I know that,” said Ascott, sullenly; “but what’s the use of it?—­money only makes the man, and I have none.  If the ancient Peter would but die now and leave me his heir, though to be sure Aunt Selina might be putting her oar in.  Perhaps—­considering I’m Aunt Selina’s nephew—­if I were to walk into the old chap now he might be induced to fork out!  Hurrah! that’s a splendid idea.”