“When shall we make the _pot pourri_, ma’am?” she said with averted face. But Mrs. Unett was not to be deceived or repulsed. She put her arm about the girl, and gently turned the tear-stained face to her own, kissing her daughter without a word. That was more than Hilary’s pride could withstand, she sank down on her knees and clung to her mother, sobbing anew. “It’s all over,” she said, piteously; “I have been quite--quite deceived. Oh, mother! he has sided with the Parliament.” “We might have expected it, after all,” said Mrs. Unett; “for his father hath ever inclined to that side, yet I never thought--never dreamt that if it actually came to war he could be disloyal.” “Oh, he has some fine arguing about being faithful to the Great Charter,” said Hilary, bitterly. “But I told him I would never love a rebel--and I bid him choose between me and the country.” “And he?” said Mrs. Unett. “He chose the country, and I said I would see him no more,” said Hilary, with a rush of tears. Little by little Mrs. Unett gathered most of what had passed, and her kindly heart was rent with conflicting feelings. After all, Gabriel had spoken truly when he said their love could not really be touched by any matters of State; Hilary was too young to understand the full truth of that thought. And yet, in spite of all, how could the Bishop give her in marriage to one agreeing with those who had just turned the Bishops out of the House of Lords? “If only I had some man to counsel me,” thought poor Mrs. Unett. “But I can’t consult Dr. Harford, and the Dean must not know of the betrothal. I must go to Whitbourne and get my father’s advice--how is a lonely woman to judge in so difficult a matter?” “Hilary,” she said, in a tone of relief. “We will drive over this very day to Whitbourne and consult your grandfather. Dry your eyes, child; he will be sure to tell us what it is right to do.” Now Hilary was quite without her mother’s tendency to consult a man in every difficulty, nevertheless she hailed with no small satisfaction this notion of going to Whitbourne, for Whitbourne was twenty-three miles from Hereford, and with every inch she felt that she would be stronger to harden her heart against Gabriel. Nothing would have induced her to confess this thought to anybody, but deep down in her own consciousness she was aware of a great dread. If she met Gabriel, and if again he were to give her that look of reproachful love she feared he might break down her power of resistance. There was a certain comfort, moreover, in the hurried preparations for departure; they would inevitably stay for a few days, for a journey over the proverbially bad roads of Herefordshire was not by any to be taken in hand lightly or unadvisedly, but required a little breathing time in which fragile ladies of Mrs. Unett’s constitution might recover from the severe shaking undergone.