"Shapes our ends,
Rough-how them as we will."
When Hilary left the shop she was startled by a voice at her elbow.
"I beg your pardon, but if your way lies up Southampton Row, would you object to give an old woman a share of that capital umbrella of yours?"
"With pleasure," Hilary answered, though the oddness of the request amused her. And it was granted really with pleasure; for the old lady spoke with those "accents of the mountain tongue" which this foolish Hilary never recognized without a thrill at the heart.
"May be you think an old woman ought to take a cab, and not be intruding upon strangers; but I am hale and hearty, and being only a streets length from my own door, I dislike to waste unnecessary shillings."
"Certainly," acquiesced Hilary, with a half sigh: shillings were only too precious to her.
"I saw you in the boot shop, and you seemed the sort of young lady who would do a kindness to an old body like me; so I said to myself, 'Ill ask her.'"
"I am glad you did." Poor girl! she felt unconsciously pleased at finding herself still able to show a kindness to any body.
They walked on and on—it was certainly a long street's length—to the stranger's door, and it took Hilary a good way round from hers; but she said nothing of this, concluding, of course, that her companion was unaware of where she lived; in which she was mistaken. They stopped at last before a respectable house near Brunswick Square, bearing a brass plate, with the words "Miss Balquidder."
"That is my name, and very much obliged to you, my dear. How it rains! Ye're just drenched."