Hilary gladly assented, and after telling Victoria to send for her when she was ready to go, she followed Isabel from the saloon. In her pleasant dressing-room, with windows open and jalousies closed, making a cool and grateful twilight, Dora was stretched listlessly on a sofa; her beautiful long hair all tumbled about her pretty face, and her whole appearance, and even her attitude, betokening a restless and miserable impatience. Isabel had put Hilary in at the door without speaking, and then herself retreated; and, on hearing a noise, poor Dora did not raise her head, but only asked who was there. Her friend did not answer, advancing gently to the sofa, but uncertain how to announce herself. Dora then removed the hand which covered her weary eyes, and raised her head. With one little shriek of satisfaction, up she sprang, and Hilary was clasped in her arms, with warm kisses rained on her cheeks and lips, and tender embraces, and choking sobs, and smiling, tearful words of endearment and welcome, and blushes which ran up quick and hot to her temples, and even dyed her finger tips with pink, so deep they were. Poor Dora! hers was the sorrow and the emotion of a child. They sat down together on the sofa; Dora with her arm round Hilary’s waist, and nestling in close to her, as if there she might find peace, or at least support. “How are you all at home, Hilary? and who is there?” were her first coherent words, and down went her looks upon the carpet, and up came, redder than ever, the blushes to her cheeks. “Well――all well――and Maurice has not left us yet!” There was a little start, and the fingers which held Hilary’s hand were pressed more closely than before; there was a fluttered pause, and then the trembling girl said―― “Do you know, Hilary?――has he told you?”――and the eyes asked even more eloquently than the words. “Yes, Dora, he has. I came here on that account.” Dora threw herself upon her companion’s neck. “Good, dear, sweet Hilary! what do you think of me? are you shocked? oh, don’t say I am wicked to love him. Is it, can it be wrong? I could not help it Hilary; indeed, I could not!” “Do you think _I_ could blame you for loving my brother?” said Hilary, tenderly. “Ah, dearest Hilary! how good you are. Then you do not think me wrong; oh, what a comfort. If _you_ say I am right, then I feel sure indeed that I am.” Miss Duncan’s eyes were cast down, and there came a graver expression over her face, which Dora immediately remarked. “What is it, Hilary?” eagerly inquired she; “what is wrong? Why do you look so? If you do not blame me for loving Maurice, what do you mean?”