for her young mistress must be somebody exceedingly grand and noble—­a compound of the best heroes of Shakespeare, Scott, Fenimore Cooper, Maria Edgeworth, and Harriet Martineau.  When this strange gentleman appeared—­in ordinary coat and hat, or rather Glengary bonnet, neither particularly handsome nor particularly tall, yet whose coming had evidently given Miss Hilary so much pleasure, and who, once or twice while waiting at tea, Elizabeth fancied she had seen looking at Miss Hilary as nobody ever looked before—­when Mr. Robert Lyon appeared on the horizon, the faithful “bower maiden” was a good deal disappointed.

She had expected something better; at all events, something different.  Her first brilliant castle in the air fell, poor lass! but she quickly built it up again, and, with the vivid imagination of her age, she mapped out the whole future, ending by a vision of Miss Hilary, all in white, sweeping down the Terrace in a carriage and pair—­to fortune and happiness; leaving herself, though with a sore want at her heart, and a great longing to follow, to devote the remainder of her natural life to Miss Johanna.

“Her couldna do without somebody to see to her—­and Miss Selina do worrit her so.” muttered Elizabeth, in the excitement of this Almaschar vision, relapsing into her old provincialisms.  “So, even if Miss Hilary axes me to come, I’ll stop, I reckon.  Ay, I’ll stop wi’ Miss Leaf.”

This valorous determination taken, the poor maid servant’s dream was broken by the opening of the parlor door, and an outcry of Ascott’s for his coat and gloves, he having to fetch his aunts home at nine o’clock, Mr. Lyon accompanying him.  And as they all stood together at the front door, Elizabeth overheard Mr. Lyon say something about what a beautiful night it was.

“It would do you no harm, Miss Hilary; will you walk with us?”

“If you like.”

Hilary went up stairs for her bonnet and shawl; but when, a minute or two after, Elizabeth followed her with a candle, she found her standing in the centre of the room, all in the dark, her face white and her hands trembling.

“Thank you, thank you!” she said mechanically, as Elizabeth folded and fastened her shawl for her—­and descended immediately.  Elizabeth watched her take, not Ascott’s arm, but Mr. Lyon’s, and walk down the terrace in the starlight.

“Some’at’s wrong.  I’d like to know who’s been a-vexin’ of her,” thought fiercely the young servant.

No, nobody had been “a-vexing” her mistress.  There was nobody to blame; only there had happened to Hilary one of those things which strike like a sword through a young and happy heart, taking all the life and youth out of it.

Robert Lyon had, half an hour ago, told her—­and she had had to hear it as a piece of simple news, to which she had only to say, “Indeed!”—­that to day and to-morrow were his two last days at Stowbury—­almost his last in England.  Within a week he was to sail for India.