This was Elizabeth's first initiation into what many a servant has to share--the secret burden of the family. After that day, though they did not actually confide in her, her mistresses used no effort to conceal that they had cares; that the domestic economies must, this winter, be especially studied; there must be no extra fires, no candles left burning to waste; and once a week or so, a few butterless breakfasts or meatless dinners must be partaken of cheerfully, in both parlor and kitchen. The Misses Leaf never stinted their servant in any thing in which they did not stint themselves. Strange to say, in spite of Miss Selina's prophecies, the girl's respectful conduct did not abate: on the contrary, it seemed to increase. The nearer she was lifted to her mistress's level, the more her mind grew, so that she could better understand her mistresses cares, and the deeper her consciousness of the only thing which gives one human being any real authority over another--personal character. Therefore, though the family means were narrowed, and the family luxuries few, Elizabeth cheerfully put up with all; she even felt a sort of pride in wasting nothing and in making the best of every thing, as the others did. Perhaps, it may be said she was an exceptional servant; and yet I would not do her class the wrong to believe so-I would rather believe that there are many such among it; many good, honest, faithful girls, who only need good mistresses unto whom to be honest and faithful, and they would be no less so than Elizabeth Hand. The months went by--heavy and anxious months; for the school gradually dwindled away, and Ascott's letter--now almost the only connection his aunts had with the outer world, for poverty necessarily diminished even their small Stowbury society--became more and more unsatisfactory; and the want of information in them was not supplied by those other letters which had once kept Johanna's heart easy concerning the boy. Mr. Lyon had written once before sailing, nay, after sailing, for he had sent it home by the pilot from the English Channel; then there was, of course, silence. October, November, December, January, February, March--how often did Hilary count the months, and wonder how soon a letter would come, whether a letter ever would come again. And sometimes--the sharp present stinging her with its small daily pains, the future looking dark before her and them all--she felt so forlorn, so forsaken, that but for a certain tiny well-spring of hope, which rarely dries up till long after three-and twenty, she could have sat down and sighed, "My good days are done."