But this could not be always. It came to an end one January afternoon, when he had returned from a second absence in Liverpool. They were walking up Richmond Hill. The sun had set frostily and red over the silver curve of the Thames, and Venus, large and bright, was shining like a great eye in the western sky. Hilary long remembered exactly how every thing looked, even to the very tree they stood under, when Robert Lyon asked her to fix definitely the day that she would marry him. Would she consent--there seemed no special reason to the contrary--that it should be immediately? Or would she like to remain with Johanna as she was, till just before they sailed? He wished to be as good as possible to Johanna--still. And something in his manner impressed Hilary more than ever before with the conviction of all she was to him; likewise, all he was to her. More, much more than even a few short weeks since. Then, intense as it was, the love had a dream like unreality; now it was close, home-like, familiar. Instinctively she clung to his arm; she had become so used to being Robert's darling now. She shivered as she thought of the wide seas rolling between them; of the time when she should look for him at the daily meal and daily fireside, and find him no more. "Robert, I want to talk to you about Johanna." "I guess what it is," said he, smiling; "you would like her to go out to India with us. Certainly, if she chooses. I hope you did not suppose I should object." "No; but it is not that. She would not live six months in a hot climate; the doctor tells me so." "You consulted him?" "Yes, confidentially, without her knowing it. But I thought it right. I wanted to make quite sure before--before-- Oh, Robert--." The grief of her tone caused him to suspect what was coming, He started. "You don't mean that? Oh no, you can not! My little woman, my own little woman--she could not be so unkind." Hilary turned sick at heart. The dim landscape, the bright sky, seemed to mingle and dance before her, and Venus to stare at her with a piercing, threatening, baleful lustre. "Robert, let me sit down on the bench, and sit you beside me. It is too dark for people to notice us, and we shall not be very cold." "No, my darling;" and he slipped his plaid round her shoulders, and his arm with it. She looked up pitifully. "Don't be vexed with me, Robert, dear; I have thought it all over; weighed it on every side; nights and nights I have been awake pondering what was right to do. And it always comes to the same thing." "What?" "It's the old story," she answered with a feeble smile. "'I canna leave my minnie.' There is nobody in the world to take care of Johanna but me, not even Elizabeth, who is engrossed in little Henry. If I left her, I am sure it would kill her. And she can not come with me. Dear!" (the only fond name she ever called him) "for these three years--you say it need only be three years--you will have to go back to India alone."