Mr. Lyon himself requires no long description.  In his first visit he had told Miss Leaf all about himself that there was to be known; that he was, as they were, a poor teacher, who had altogether “made himself,” as so many Scotch students do.  His father, whom he scarcely remembered, had been a small Ayrshire farmer; his mother was dead, and he had never had either brother or sister.

Seeing how clever Miss Hilary was, and how much as a schoolmistress she would need all the education she could get, he had offered to teach her along with her nephew; and she and Johanna were only too thankful for the advantage.  But during the teaching he had also taught her another thing, which neither had contemplated at the time—­to respect him with her whole soul, and to love him with her whole heart.

Over this simple fact let no more be now said.  Hilary said nothing.  She recognized it herself as soon as he was gone; a plain, sad, solemn truth, which there was no deceiving herself did not exist, even had she wished its non-existence.  Perhaps Johanna also found it out, in her darling’s extreme paleness and unusual quietness for a while; but she too said nothing.  Mr. Lyon wrote regularly to Ascott, and once or twice to her, Miss Leaf; but though every one knew that Hilary was his particular friend in the whole family, he did not write to Hilary.  He had departed rather suddenly, on account of some plan which he said, affected his future very considerably; but which, though he was in the habit of telling them his affairs, he did not further explain.  Still Johanna knew he was a good man, and though no man could be quite good enough for her darling, she liked him, she trusted him.

What Hilary felt none knew.  But she was very girlish in some things; and her life was all before her, full of infinite hope.  By-and-by her color returned, and her merry voice and laugh were heard about the house just as usual.

This being the position of affairs, it was not surprising that after Ascott’s last speech Hilary’s mind wandered from Dido and Æneas to vague listening, as the lad began talking of his grand future—­the future of a medical student, all expenses being paid by his godfather, Mr. Ascott, the merchant, of Russell Square, once a shop boy of Stowbury.

Nor was it unnatural that all Ascott’s anticipations of London resolved themselves, in his aunt’s eyes, into the one fact that he would “see Mr. Lyon.”

But in telling thus much about her mistresses, I have for the time being lost sight of Elizabeth Hand.

Left to herself, the girl stood for a minute or two looking around her in a confused manner, then, rousing her faculties, began mechanically to obey the order with which her mistress had quitted the kitchen, and to wash up the tea-things.  She did it in a fashion that, if seen, would have made Miss Leaf thankful that the ware was only the common set, and not the cherished china belonging to former days:  still she did it, noisily it is true, but actively, as if her heart were in her work.  Then she took a candle and peered about her new domains.