So the plan was proposed, and the two physicians held a consultation, and for a while Hilary hoped against hope. But at length the day came when she could no longer refuse to recognise the terrible truth--her mother was dying. There was no great suffering; indeed, Mrs. Unett would have passed away in absolute peace had it not been for the thought of her child left behind in sorrow and loneliness, fortunately Dr. William Coke, her favourite brother, was able to ride over to Hereford on the day this was most troubling her. “You see, Hilary cannot live on here, as she wishes to do, with no better protection than Mrs. Durdle,” sighed the mother. “And though my father would gladly have her at the Palace, she doth not agree with other members of the household, and such an arrangement would never work well. I would that I could have lived to see her married.” “Too late for Mr. Geers of Garnons,” said Dr. Coke, with a gleam of merriment in his eyes. “They tell me he is just betrothed to Mistress Eliza Acton. And Hilary, I understand, did refuse his suit with great decision. But do not be troubled as to her future. Why should she not come and cheer her old bachelor uncle? I should most gladly welcome her, and I’ll warrant Mrs. Durdle would keep my untidy vicarage in apple-pie order.” “That she would,” said Mrs. Unett, with a smile. “You are very good, brother, to suggest such a plan. To leave Hilary in your charge would be the greatest comfort to me.” She longed sorely to tell of the hope she had once cherished of seeing her child wedded to Gabriel Harford, but she had promised secrecy, and felt that matters were now hopeless; moreover, Hilary would probably prefer that her uncle should never know that chapter of her life-story. The silence was the last sacrifice the mother was to make, and it was a very real sacrifice to one who always craved the comfort of a man’s opinion. Even as she lay there musing over the possibilities of the future, Dr. Coke saw a change in her face which alarmed him. He went to the door and spoke in a low voice to his niece. “You had better send for Dr. Harford, my dear,” he said. “I fancy I see a change in your mother.” Hilary would not risk sending, she ran herself without ceremony by the garden way as she would have done in old times, and while the servant went in search of the doctor, waited in the study, looking round with an aching heart at the familiar place. Very quickly she noted the only new thing in the room. It was the miniature by M. Jean Petitot which Gabriel had mentioned in his Christmas letter, and crossing to the mantelshelf on which it stood, she looked long and earnestly at the portrait of the man who loved her. The strong, clean-souled face appealed to all that was best in her, and the great artist had succeeded in reproducing that quiet spirituality in the eyes which had somehow dominated her in their last unhappy meeting.