One Saturday afternoon, the young people all set out together for a long ramble through the forest, the two girls on their ponies, Hilary and Maurice arm-in-arm, an arrangement which suited them admirably, as affording pleasure to the young ones, and securing at the same time the luxury of confidential communication between the brother and sister. Thus they strolled along, the children choosing the way, and leading them down beautiful glades carpeted with mossy turf, and over-arched by the old elms, and beech, and oak, where thickets of holly, underwood, and fern made what Maurice called reefs, promontories, islands, or sheltering bays; winding about sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another, at length they were entirely beyond the knowledge of any of the party, and it suddenly became a matter of doubt which way they were to turn. Hilary had gone on, leaning, figuratively as well as actually, on her brother; and it had never occurred to her, that with all his experience, and knowledge, and learning, he might not be so well qualified to guide them as to deserve this implicit credit. They all came to a stand-still at last, and looked about them with different degrees of wonder and uneasiness. There was no track, no mark of foot-steps, no sound of man to guide them. Hilary sat down on a fallen tree, puzzled and yet amused, while Maurice and her sisters made little excursions in different directions, to endeavor to discover some leading indications. They had gone a little out of sight, and she was looking toward the point from which she expected them to return, when she heard footsteps approaching, and turning round, saw, through a thicket of thorn, hazel, and holly, a person whom at first she believed to be her brother. “Maurice, have you found the path?” exclaimed she, eagerly; but the next moment she perceived it was a stranger who advanced, and who, springing over the intervening underwood of fern and bramble, presently stood by her side. “I beg your pardon,” said Hilary, as she looked at him; “I thought it was my brother when I spoke.” She addressed him with an easy grace and courtesy, which was very attractive; and the intruder replied, with as much eagerness as politeness permitted, “I have not seen your brother; can I be of any service to you? may I infer from your question that you have lost your way?” “Indeed we have,” replied Hilary, frankly; “well as I know the forest generally, I am quite puzzled now, and my brother and sisters are gone a little way to try and find a path.” “If you will allow me to remain with you till their return,” replied the stranger, “I shall be most happy to act as your guide. In which direction do you wish to proceed?” “We belong to Hurstdene,” replied Hilary; “I am the clergyman’s daughter; perhaps you know the name of Mr. Duncan?” “Perfectly; though I have not the pleasure of his acquaintance; but you are a long way from Hurstdene; five miles, I should think, at least.”