“Ah, well, you must leave me, and I will miss you terribly, my deal,” said the old Scotch woman.  But it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good, and I have another young lady quite ready to step into your shoes.  When shall you be married?”

“I don’t know—­hush:  we’ll talk another time,” said Hilary, glancing at Johanna.

Miss Balquidder took the hint and was silent.

That important question was indeed beginning to weigh heavily on Hilary’s mind.  She was fully aware of what Mr. Lyon wished, and indeed, expected; that when, the business of the firm being settled, in six months hence he returned to India, he should not return alone.  When he said this, she had never dared to answer, hardly even to think.  She let the peaceful present float on, day by day, without recognizing such a thing as the future.

But this could not be always.  It came to an end one January afternoon, when he had returned from a second absence in Liverpool.  They were walking up Richmond Hill.  The sun had set frostily and red over the silver curve of the Thames, and Venus, large and bright, was shining like a great eye in the western sky.  Hilary long remembered exactly how every thing looked, even to the very tree they stood under, when Robert Lyon asked her to fix definitely the day that she would marry him.  Would she consent—­there seemed no special reason to the contrary—­that it should be immediately?  Or would she like to remain with Johanna as she was, till just before they sailed?  He wished to be as good as possible to Johanna—­still.

And something in his manner impressed Hilary more than ever before with the conviction of all she was to him; likewise, all he was to her.  More, much more than even a few short weeks since.  Then, intense as it was, the love had a dream like unreality; now it was close, home-like, familiar.  Instinctively she clung to his arm; she had become so used to being Robert’s darling now.  She shivered as she thought of the wide seas rolling between them; of the time when she should look for him at the daily meal and daily fireside, and find him no more.

“Robert, I want to talk to you about Johanna.”

“I guess what it is,” said he, smiling; “you would like her to go out to India with us.  Certainly, if she chooses.  I hope you did not suppose I should object.”

“No; but it is not that.  She would not live six months in a hot climate; the doctor tells me so.”

“You consulted him?”

“Yes, confidentially, without her knowing it.  But I thought it right.  I wanted to make quite sure before—­before—­ Oh, Robert—.”

The grief of her tone caused him to suspect what was coming, He started.

“You don’t mean that?  Oh no, you can not!  My little woman, my own little woman—­she could not be so unkind.”

Hilary turned sick at heart.  The dim landscape, the bright sky, seemed to mingle and dance before her, and Venus to stare at her with a piercing, threatening, baleful lustre.