Ascott Leaf had finished his walking the hospitals and his examinations, and was now fitted to commence practice for himself. His godfather had still continued his allowance, though once or twice, when he came down to Stowbury, he had asked his aunts to help him in small debts the last time in one a little more serious; when, after some sad and sore consultation2, it had been resolved to tell him he must contrive3 to live within his own allowance. For they were poorer than they used to be; many more schools had arisen in the town, and theirs had dwindled4 away. It was becoming a source of serious anxiety whether they could possibly make ends meet; and when, the next Christmas, Ascott sent them a five pound note—an actual five pound note, together with a fond, grateful letter that was worth it all—the aunts were deeply thankful, and very happy.
But still the school declined. One night they were speculating upon the causes of this, and Hilary was declaring, in a half jocular, half earnest way, that it must be because a prophet is never a prophet in his own country.
"The Stowbury people will never believe how clever I am. Only, it is a useless sort of cleverness, I fear. Greek, Latin, and mathematics are no good to infants under seven, such as Stowbury persists in sending to us."
"They think I am only fit to teach little children—and perhaps it is true," said Miss Leaf.
"I wish you had not to teach at all. I wish I was a daily governess—I might be, and earn enough to keep the whole family; only, not here."
"I wonder," said Johanna, thoughtfully, "if we shall have to make a change."
"A change!" It almost pained the elder sister to see how the younger brightened up at the word. "Where to—London? Oh, I have so longed to go and live in London! But I thought you would not like it, Johanna."
That was true. Miss Leaf, whom feeble health had made prematurely5 old, would willingly have ended her days in the familiar town; but Hilary was young and strong. Johanna called to mind the days when she too had felt that rest was only another name for dullness; and when the most difficult thing possible to her was what seemed now so easy—to sit down and endure.
Besides, unlike herself, Hilary had her life all before her. It might be a happy life, safe in a good man's tender keeping; those unfailing letters from India seemed to prophecy that it would. But no one could say. Miss Leaf's own experience had not led her to place much faith in either men or happiness.
Still, whatever Hilary's future might be, it would likely be a very different one from that quiet, colorless life of hers. And as she looked at her younger sister, with the twilight6 glow on her face—they were taking an evening stroll up and down the terrace—Johanna hoped and prayed it might be so. Her own lot seemed easy enough for herself; but for Hilary—she would like to see Hilary something better than a poor schoolmistress at Stowbury.
No more was said at that time, but Johanna had the deep, still, Mary-like nature, which "kept" things, and "pondered them in her heart." So that when the subject came up again she was able to meet it with that sweet calmness which was her especial characteristic—the unruffled peace of a soul which no worldly storms could disturb overmuch, for it had long since cast anchor in the world unseen.
The chance which revived the question of the Great Metropolitan7 Hegira8, as Hilary called it, was a letter from Mr. Ascott, as follows:
"MISS LEAF. MADAM,—I shall be obliged by your informing me if it is your wish, as it seems to be your nephew's, that instead of returning to Stowbury, he should settle in London as a surgeon and general practitioner9? His education complete, I consider that I have done my duty by him; but I may assist him occasionally still, unless he turns out—as his father did before him—a young man who prefers being helped to helping10 himself, in which case I shall have nothing more to do with him. I remain, Madam, your obedient servant, PETER ASCOTT."
The sisters read this letter, passing it round the table, none of them apparently11 liking12 to be the first to comment upon it. At length Hilary said: "I think that reference to poor Henry is perfectly13 brutal14."
"And yet he was very kind to Henry. And if it had not been for his common sense in sending poor little Ascott and the nurse down to Stowbury the baby might have died. But you don't remember any thing of that time, my dear," said Johanna, sighing.
"He has been kind enough, though he has done it in such a patronizing way," observed Selina. "I suppose that's the real reason of his doing it. He thinks it fine to patronize us, and show kindness to our family; he, the stout15, bullet-headed grocer's boy, who used to sit and stare at us all church time."
"At you—you mean. Wasn't he called your beau?" said Hilary mischievously16, upon which Selina drew herself up in great indignation.
And then they fell to talking of that anxious question—Ascott's future. A little they reproached themselves that they had left the lad so long in London—so long out of the influence that might have counteracted17 the evil, sharply hinted in his godfather's letter. But once away—to lure18 him back to their poor home was impossible.
"Suppose we were to go to him," suggested Hilary.
The poor and friendless possess one great advantage—they have nobody to ask advice of; nobody to whom it matters much what they do or where they go. The family mind has but to make itself up, and act accordingly. Thus within an hour or two of the receipt of Mr. Ascott's letter Hilary went into the kitchen, and told Elizabeth that as soon as her work was done Miss Leaf wished to have a little talk with her.
"Eh! what's wrong? Has Miss Selina been a-grumbling at me?"
Elizabeth was in one of her bad humors, which, though of course they never ought to have, servants do have as well as their superiors. Hilary perceived this by the way she threw the coals on and tossed the chairs about. But to-day her heart was full of far more serious cares than Elizabeth's ill temper. She replied, composedly—
"I have not heard that either of my sisters is displeased19 with you. What they want to talk to you about is for your own good. We are thinking of making a great change. We intend to leave Stowbury and going to live in London."
"Going to live in London!"
Now, quick as her tact20 and observation were—her heart taught her these things—Elizabeth's head was a thorough Saxon one, slow to receive impressions. It was a family saying, that nothing was so hard as to put a new idea into Elizabeth except to get it out again.
For this reason Hilary preferred paving the way quietly, before startling her with the sudden intelligence of their contemplated21 change.
"Well, what do you say to the plan?" asked she, good-humoredly.
"I dunnot like it at all," was the brief gruff answer of Elizabeth
Hand.
Now it was one of Miss Hilary's doctrines22 that no human being is good for much unless he or she has what is called "a will of one's own." Perhaps this, like many another creed23, was with her the result of circumstances. But she held it firmly, and with that exaggerated one-sidedness of feeling which any bitter family or personal experience is sure to leave behind—a strong will was her first attraction to every body. It had been so in the case of Robert Lyon, and not less in Elizabeth's.
But this quality has its inconveniences. When the maid began sweeping24 up her hearth25 with a noisy, angry gesture, the mistress did the wisest and most
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