and learned man as he was, there was nothing literary or poetical
about Mr. Lyon; but what he wrote was like what he spoke, the
accurate reflection of his own clear, original mind and honest,
tender heart.

His letters gave none the less comfort because, nominally, they were
addressed to Johanna. This might have been from some crotchet of
over-reserve, delicacy, or honor--the same which made him part from
her for years with no other word than 'You must trust me, Hilary;'
but whatever it was she respected it, and she did trust him. And
whether Johanna answered his letters or not, month by month they
unfailingly came, keeping her completely informed of all his
proceedings, and letting out, as epistles written from over the seas
often do, much more of himself and his character than he was probably
aware that he betrayed.

And Hilary, whose sole experience of mankind had been the scarcely
remembered father, the too well remembered brother, and the anxiously
watched nephew, thanked God that there seemed to be one man in the
world whom a woman could lean her heart upon, and not feel the
support break like a reed beneath her--one man whom she could
entirely believe in, and safely and sacredly trust.



CHAPTER VIII.

Time slipped by. Robert Lyon had been away more than three years. But
in the monotonous life of the three sisters at Stowbury, nothing was
changed. Except, perhaps, Elizabeth, who had grown quite a woman;