While she talked her companion had quite recovered herself, and Miss
Balquidder then went on to explain, what I will tell more briefly, if
less graphically, than the good Scotchwoman, who, like all who have
had a hard struggle in their youth, liked a little to dilate upon it
in easy old age. Hard as it was, however, it had ended early, for at
fifty she found herself a woman of independent property, without kith
or kin, still active, energetic, and capable of enjoying life. She
applied her mind to find out what she could best do with herself and
her money.

"I might have bought a landed estate to be inherited by--nobody; or a
house in Belgravia, and an opera-box, to be shared by--nobody. We all
have our pet luxuries; none of these were exactly mine."

"No," assented Hilary, somewhat abstractedly. She was thinking--if
she could make a fortune, and--and give it away!--if, by any means,
any honorable, upright heart could be made to understand that it did
not signify, in reality, which side the money came from; that it
sometimes showed deeper, the very deepest attachment, when a proud,
poor man had self-respect and courage enough to say to a woman, "I
love you, and I will marry you; I am not such a coward as to be
afraid of your gold."

But, oh! what a ridiculous dream!--and she sat there, the penniless
Hilary Leaf, listening to Miss Balquidder, the rich lady, whose life
seemed so easy. For the moment, perhaps, her own appeared hard. But
she had hope, and she was young. She knew nothing of the years and
years that had had to be lived through before those kind eyes looked
as clear and cloudless as now; before the voice had gained the sweet