The Stowbury children, who were then little boys and girls, are now fathers and mothers—­doubtless a large proportion being decent tradesfolk in Stowbury still; though, in this locomotive quarter, many must have drifted elsewhere—­where, Heaven knows.  But not a few of them may still call to mind Miss Leaf, who first taught them their letters—­sitting in her corner between the fire and the window, while the blind was drawn down to keep out, first the light from her own fading eyes, and, secondly, the distracting view of green fields and trees from the youthful eyes by her side.  They may remember still her dark plain dress and her white apron, on which the primers, torn and dirty, looked half ashamed to lie; and above all, her sweet face and sweeter voice, never heard in any thing sharper than that grieved tone which signified their being “naughty children.”  They may recall her unwearied patience with the very dullest and most wayward of them; her unfailing sympathy with every infantile pleasure and pain.  And I think they will acknowledge that whether she taught them much or little—­in this advancing age it might be thought little—­Miss Leaf taught them one thing—­to love her.  Which, as Ben Johnson said of the Countess of Pembroke, was in itself a “liberal education.”

Hilary, too.  Often when Hilary’s younger and more restless spirit chafed against the monotony of her life; when, instead of wasting her days in teaching small children, she would have liked to be learning, learning—­every day growing wiser and cleverer, and stretching out into that busy, bright, active world of which Robert Lyon had told her—­then the sight of Johanna’s meek face bent over those dirty spelling books would at once rebuke and comfort her.  She felt, after all, that she would not mind working on forever, so long as Johanna still sat there.

Nevertheless, that winter seemed to her very long—­especially after Ascott was gone.  For Johanna, partly for money, and partly for kindness, had added to her day’s work four evenings a week when a half educated mother of one of her little pupils came to be taught to write a decent hand, and to keep the accounts of her shop.  Upon which Selina, highly indignant, had taken to spending her evenings in the school room, interrupting Hilary’s solitary studies there by many a lamentation over the peaceful days when they all sat in the kitchen together and kept no servant.  For Selina was one of those who never saw the bright side of any thing till it had gone by.

“I’m sure I don’t know how we are to manage with Elizabeth.  That greedy—­”

“And growing,” suggested Hilary.

“I say that greedy girl eats as much as any two of us.  And as for her clothes—­her mother does not keep her even decent.”

“She would find it difficult upon three pounds a year.”

“Hilary, how dare you contradict me!  I am only stating a plain fact.”

“And I another.  But, indeed, I don’t want to talk Selina.”