“Then you have been neither cruel nor selfish, my dear brother, but strictly honorable and right. Imprudent, perhaps, but who can control the heart by prudence, Maurice; or prevent the growth of love, where there is sympathy and community of feeling? We can not either compel or forbid its existence, can we?” and Hilary blushed deeply, as she propounded a doctrine taught her by her late experience. “I do not think that is right, Hilary,” replied her brother thoughtfully, considering his own circumstances, and not suspecting from what feelings she spoke. “I believe we ought to control all our passions; and if we have not the power, it must be that we have willfully thrown it away. Love is like ardent spirits, perhaps, we may refrain altogether, but if we do imbibe it we must be responsible for the ungovernable evils it produces. And, oh, Hilary!” added he, throwing himself down on the grass again, “I am a wretch for having plunged Dora in such a depth of trouble――a selfish, miserable wretch; because, even now, I can not wish her not to love me; I would give the world, I would give my hopes of promotion, that she had never begun; but I can not, try as I will, really wish her now to leave off loving me. And yet it is only sorrow and pain to her.” “But, Maurice, better times may come――why should you despair so? who knows what may happen to induce Mr. Barham to approve of your suit, and then what happiness for you?” “What happiness indeed! I wish Dora would let me speak. I am sure it would have been better, don’t you think so, Hilary? We could but have been refused; have had to part, and to wait; we _might_ have been happier. We had better have spoken.” “Yes, I am sure of that,” said Hilary, emphatically, “certainty would be better, and candor and openness must be the safest, because the truest path. She should have let you speak.” “I don’t know, though,” resumed Maurice, with a strong dislike to hear even an implied censure on his idol, “she must be the best judge of that; the evils, the pain of coldness and displeasure, would have all fallen on her. She would have been the sufferer. It was natural she should shrink from the disclosure, it would cost her too dear! If I could only have borne all for her!” “I can not imagine that she would have met with any thing half so bad as the trouble of concealment and the pain of mystery. Mr. Barham might not approve your attachment, and then he would have separated you, sent her away, or something of that sort; but that is no more than has now happened. The dictates of honor are as imperative as the commands of the sternest parent. If he had refused his consent, you must have given up all hope, and you might both trust to recovering in time from an unfortunate love.” “Hilary, you don’t know! Love like mine lasts for life,” was his determined answer.