When he was really gone—­when, as she sat with her tearless eyes fixed on the closed door—­Johanna softly touched her, saying, “My child” then Hilary learned it all.

The next twenty-four hours will hardly bear being written about.  Most people know what it is to miss the face out of the house—­the life out of the heart.  To come and go, to eat and drink, to lie down and rise, and find all thing the same, and gradually to recognize that it must be the same, indefinitely, perhaps always.  To be met continually by small trifles—­a dropped glove, a book, a scrap of handwriting that yesterday would have been thrown into the fire, but to-day is picked up and kept as a relic; and at times, bursting through the quietness which must be gained, or at least assumed, the cruel craving for one word more—­one kiss more—­for only one five minutes of the eternally ended yesterday!

All this hundreds have gone through; so did Hilary.  She said afterward it was good for her that she did; it would make her feel for others in a way she had never felt before.  Also, because it taught her that such a heart-break can be borne and lived through when help is sought where only real help can be found; and where, when reason fails, and those who, striving to do right irrespective of the consequences, cry out against their torments and wonder why they should be made so to suffer, childlike faith comes to their rescue.  For, let us have all the philosophy at our fingers’ ends, what are we but children?  We know not what a day may bring forth.  All wisdom resolves itself into the simple hymn which we learned when we were young: 

        “Deep in unfathomable mines
        Of never-failing skill. 
        He treasures up His vast designs,
        And works His sovereign will.

        “Blind unbelief is sure to err. 
        And scan His work in vain: 
        God is His own interpreter. 
        And He will make it plain.”

The night after Robert Lyon left, Hilary and Johanna were sitting together in their parlor.  Hilary had been writing a long letter to Miss Balquidder, explaining that she would now give up in favor of the other young lady, or any other of the many to whom it would be a blessing, her position in the shop; but that she hoped still to help her—­Miss Balquidder—­in any way she could point out that would be useful to others.  She wished, in her humble way, as a sort of thank offering from one who had passed through the waves and been landed safe ashore, to help those who were still struggling, as she herself had struggled once.  She desired, as far as in her lay, to be Miss Balquidder’s “right hand” till Mr. Lyon came home.

This letter she read aloud to Johanna, whose failing eye sight refused all candle light occupation, and then came and sat beside her in silence.  She felt terribly worn and weary, but she was very quiet now.

“We must go to bed early,” was all she said.