Then casting a glance round, and seeing that Ascott was quite out of ear-shot, he said, with that tender fall of the voice that felt, as some poet hath it,

        “Like a still embrace,”

“Now tell me as much as you can about yourself.”

At first there seemed nothing to tell; but gradually he drew from Hilary a good deal.  Johanna’s feeble health, which caused her continuing to teach to be very unadvisable; and the gradual diminishing of the school—­from what cause they could not account—­which made it very doubtful whether some change would not soon or late be necessary.

What this change should be she and Mr. Lyon discussed a little—­as far as in the utterly indefinite position of affairs was possible.  Also, from some other questions of his, she spoke to him about another dread which had lurked in her mind, and yet to which she could give no tangible shape, about Ascott.  He could not remove it, he did not attempt; but he soothed it a little, advising with her as to the best way of managing the willful lad.  His strong, clear sense, just judgment, and, above all, a certain unspoken sense of union, as if all that concerned her and hers he took naturally upon himself as his own, gave Hilary such comfort that, even on this night, with a full consciousness of all that was to follow, she was happy—­nay, she had not been so happy for years.  Perhaps (let the truth be told), the glorious truth of true love, that its recognition, spoken or silent, constitutes the only perfect joy of life that of two made perhaps she had never been so really happy since she was born.

The last thing he did was to make her give him an assurance that in any and all difficulty she would apply to him.

“To me, and to no one else, remember.  No one but myself must help you.  And I will, so, long as I am alive.  Do you believe this?”

She looked up at him by the lamp light, and said, “I do.”

“And you promise?”

“Yes.”

Then they loosed arms, and Hilary knew that they should never walk together again till—­when and how?

Returning, of course, he walked with Miss Leaf; and throughout the next day, a terribly wet Sunday, spent by them entirely in the little parlor, they had not a minute of special or private talk together.  He did not seem to wish it; indeed, almost avoided it.

Thus slipped away the strange, still day—­a Sunday never to be forgotten.  At night, after prayers were, over, Mr. Lyon rose suddenly, saying he must leave them now; he was obliged to start from Stowbury at daybreak.

“Shall we not see you again?” asked Johanna.

“No.  This will be my last Sunday in England.  Good-by!”

He turned excessively pale, shook hands silently with them all—­Hilary last—­and almost before they recognized the fact, he was gone.