It was with the utmost difficulty that poor Maurice was able to command his attention and spirits sufficiently to be the usual cheerful companion to his father. But on his return he hurried into the garden, and there, when Hilary was able to seek him, she discovered him stretched on the sloping bank of the terrace, with his face covered by his arms. She sat down beside him, and gently passing her hands through his curly hair, she whispered, “Dear Maurice!” He turned his face toward her, and she, putting her lips to his cheek, again whispered, “I was afraid you were very unhappy.” “Oh, Hilary, I am such a wretch, such a thoughtless, selfish, cruel fellow! If you knew all――” was his exclamation, with a passionate misery of look and manner most unusual to him. “Indeed, dear Maurice, I can not believe you. You may, perhaps, have been thoughtless, though that is not like you; but cruel, selfish! never. Oh no, I know you better!” “You don’t know, dear; you could not guess what I have done; how I have pained and half-broken the dearest, warmest, most loving little heart in the world; how I have dimned her smiles, and clouded her sunshine, and made both her head and heart ache. Yes, it is all my fault; mine, mine entirely.” “Yours, dear Maurice!” “Yes, Hilary, she loves me; it is no idle vanity which misleads me; she said it――she owned it with tears and sobs――with fear and trembling, and yet in spite of both grief and terror, that she loved me; she, the bright――the rich――the beautiful; she loved _me_! and what has it brought her? Grief and pain, sickness and fear; and all for me! I, who though I would lay down my life for her, am not worthy to touch the tip of her little finger! I, who have no claim, except that of deep, doting, devoted, never-ending love for her. Oh! Hilary, is she not an angel to love me!” “But why, dear Maurice, why be so miserable then, if she really loves you? does Mr. Barham object?” asked Hilary, not quite understanding his incoherent exclamations. “We dared not ask him.” “Dared not! Maurice, that is not like you!” “No! Dora dared not. What is there that I would not dare for her that honor did not forbid? Oh, Hilary, if you only knew how I love her!” “But it is a pity――nay, surely, Maurice, it is wrong if you love thus, not to tell Mr. Barham! concealment never can be right, and must be doubly painful!” “Yes, Hilary,” said her brother, rising upright and looking steadfastly at her, “if we went on with it; but when I found how it was, that I was not only using up my own feelings, but acting on hers――not only making myself unhappy by indulging a presumptuous passion, but involving her in the same hopeless misery, I saw there were but two ways open to us. One to explain all to Mr. Barham, and cast ourselves on his compassion; the other to part! I would have taken the first, there would have been far less of suffering and misery; she judged otherwise, and we parted on Saturday. You heard what Isabel said to-day.”