and to act in so many ways for herself, contrary to the natural and
right order of things? That old order--God forbid it should ever
change!--which ordained that the women should be "keepers at home;"
happy rulers of that happy little world, which seemed as far off as
the next world from this poor Hilary.

"What if he should look down upon me? What if he should return and
find me different from what he expected?"

And bitter tears burned in her eyes, as she walked rapidly and
passionately along the deserted street. Then a revulsion came.

"No; love is worth nothing that is not worth every thing, and to be
trusted through every thing. If he could forget me--could love any
one better than me--me myself, no matter what I was--ugly or pretty,
old or young, rich or poor--I would not care for his love. It would
not be worth my having; I'd let it go. Robert, though it broke my
heart, I'd let you go."

Her eyes flashed; her poor little hand clenched itself under her
shawl; and then, as a half reproach, she heard in fancy the steady
loving voice--which could have calmed her wildest paroxysm of passion
and pain--"You must trust me, Hilary."

Yes, he was a man to be trusted. No doubt very much like other men,
and by no means such a hero to the world at large as this fond girl
made him out to be; but Robert Lyon had, with all people, and under
all circumstances, the character of reliableness. He had also--you
might read it in his face--a quality equally rare, faithfulness. Not
merely sincerity, but faithfulness; the power of conceiving one clear