He could not read—­perhaps no man’s heart could—­all the emotion that swelled in hers as she looked at him, the love of her youth, no longer young.  How the ghostly likeness of the former face gleamed out under the hard worn lines of the face that now was touching her with ineffable tenderness.  Also, with solemn content came a sense of the entire indestructibleness of that love which through all decay or alteration traces the ideal image still, clings to it, and cherishes it with a tenacity that laughs to scorn the grim dread of “growing old.”

In his premature and not specially comely middle age, in his gray hairs, in the painful, anxious, half melancholy expression which occasionally flitted across his features, as if life had gone hard with him, Robert Lyon was a thousand times dearer to her than when the world was all before them both in the early days at Stowbury.

There is a great deal of a sentimental nonsense talked about people having been “young together.”  Not necessarily is that a bond.  Many a tie formed in youth dwindles away and breaks off naturally in maturer years.  Characters alter, circumstances divide.  No one will dare to allege that there may not be loves and friendships formed in middle life as dear, as close, as firm as any of those of youth; perhaps, with some temperaments, infinitely more so.  But when the two go together, when the calm election of maturity confirms the early instinct, and the lives have been parallel, as it were, for many years, there can be no bond like that of those who say as these two did, “We were young together.”

He said so when, after dinner, he came and stood by the window where Hilary was sitting sewing.  Johanna had just gone out of the room; whether intentionally or not, this history can not avouch.  Let us give her the benefit of the doubt; she was a generous woman.

During the three hours that Mr. Lyon had been with her, Hilary’s first agitation had subsided.  That exceeding sense of rest which she had always felt beside him—­the sure index of people who, besides loving, are meant to guide and help and bless one another—­returned as strong as ever.  That deep affection which should underlie all love revived and clung to him with a chidlike confidence strengthening at every word he said, every familiar look and way.

He was by no means so composed as she was, especially now when coming up to her side and watching her hands moving for a minute or so, he asked her to tell him, a little more explicitly, of what had happened to her since they parted.

“Things are rather different from what I thought;” and he glanced with a troubled air round the neat but very humbly furnished parlor.  “And about the shop?”

“Johanna told you.”

“Yes; but her letters have been so few, so short—­not that I could expect more.  Still—­now, if you will trust me—­tell me all.”

Hilary turned to him, her friend for fifteen years.  He was that if he was nothing more.  And he had been very true; he deserved to be trusted.  She told him, in brief, the history of the last year or two, and then added: