She repeated, as far as she could, the particulars of her visit while he, drawing a little away from her, leaned his head on his hand, and so concealed his face in the deep shadow which the fingers made in the moonbeams. She could not read the expression of pain, of disappointment in his eyes; he did not mean she should――she had suffered enough for him without that; but she _knew_ what he was feeling, by the innate sympathy which love and experience give, and she grieved afresh. He was silent for a while, when she ceased speaking, and they sat together that calm summer night, as still and grave as two carved figures, except when the soft night breeze, blowing through the open window, rustled in her dress, or lifted the long brown curl from her neck. “Oh, Hilary! why did I ever know her?” was at last his exclamation. “Only to make her unhappy! dear, darling Dora!” “And what will be the end?” whispered Hilary; “what will you do?” “Hope! hope! hope! love on and love ever, while she remains single. We may not meet, but who knows what patience, perseverance, time, love, constancy, fortune may do! who can foresee what may happen? No, I will never despair, while there is room to hope!” “Dear Maurice!” was at once her most eloquent and consolatory interjection. “And, Hilary, if I sacrifice love to duty, if I deny myself now every opportunity of intercourse, every gratification of my affection until I may ask it fairly, honorably, justly, surely I may hope for brighter and better times. Only if Dora did not suffer!” He fell into a reverie, which he ended by abruptly exclaiming, “You do not love Charles Huyton, Hilary?” “No, and never shall. Would you wish it, Maurice?” “I don’t know; no, I think not, I would rather――” “What?” exclaimed she, looking eagerly at him. “Never mind!” “What makes you talk of it, Maurice?” said she, after a moment’s reflection. “He told me himself, the day of your accident; he spoke then of his love for you. I wondered I had never seen it before; but I had fancied him engaged to Miss Fielding. It is natural he should love, more than that you should not. Are you sure of that?” “Perfectly so, and so is he. If he persists in loving me, it is at his own cost; it never will be returned. I have long wished him to give it up; and like you, once thought it was going away. Till Sunday, I believed him engaged to Victoria! Did he really tell you he had not changed?” “Yes, and he was most emphatic in his expressions!” replied Maurice. “I am sure Mr. Barham wishes him for a son-in-law; and Isabel would suit him so perfectly. I wish he would think so too,” continued Hilary, speaking slowly and thoughtfully. “I wish he would; I should be so glad.” “And do you still mean never to marry, Hilary?” said her brother, turning and looking gravely in her eyes. “Do you keep unchanged?” “Leave the future, Maurice,” was her quiet answer. “I never mean to marry Mr. Huyton, nor will I leave my father for any man now living.”