“He loves you better than you love him, Dora,” continued Hilary. “He would do and suffer any thing rather than renounce you, except what he knows to be wrong.” “Then he will never speak of giving me up,” said Dora, with decision. “He will never seek to see you again, until your father knows all,” said Hilary, firmly. “Never――he said so; and why, dear Dora, why not speak?” added she again, in tones of most winning tenderness; “you can have no other hope.” “Then I can have none! for my father’s anger I will not brave. Maurice I shall love to my dying day; but if he will leave me, and will never see me more, be it so; if he would only wait――only trust for the future, something might arise, some sudden turn or change; but if he is impatient, let him go.” It was no use arguing with Dora; she felt she was wrong, but she would not dare to do right; nor was it till with tearful eyes and trembling lips, that Hilary attempted to say farewell, that her temporary indignation died away, or she softened into regret. But when she saw her friend’s deep, unspoken emotion, pride again was banished by tenderness, and springing up, she clasped her arms round Hilary’s waist, and faltered out a loving, sad adieu. “Yes, tell Maurice I am entirely unworthy of him――tell him to forget me――but for me, I will lie down and think of him forever. My heart is crushed, broken, Hilary; and to part from you, the last tie to him――it is agony. I am going away very soon. They think change will do me good: well, well, I do not care. Leave me now, Hilary.” And the little weeping, petulant beauty threw herself once more upon her couch. Hilary lingered still, and then Dora, looking up, said―― “You blame me, I know, but do you think I shall be happier than he? Will wealth, or jewels, or the empty pleasures heaped on me, or the whispered nonsense of those who seek my fortune, or the idle life I lead, will all those make my heart lighter? Compare our fates, and tell me which is most to be pitied. I know, though mine may be bright to look at, it will be all sorrow and misery within.” “But Dora, dearest Dora, why must this be? All this misery might be spared if you would but speak, or let Maurice speak. There need be no hidden grief then, and even if your father disapproved (which he might not), at least you would have done right, and then trustful patience, and resignation, and brighter hopes might come again. And peace can only be won by walking straight on to it. Believe me, Dora, you can have none unless you take this course.” “Go, go,” cried Dora, impatiently; and Hilary, hoping that her absence might do what her presence had failed to effect, prepared to withdraw. She met Miss Barham’s French maid at the door, who informed her that Mademoiselle Fielding desired her not to hurry, but she was quite ready to go; whereupon Miss Duncan immediately descended.