“Very probably,” said Hilary; “but you say Mr. Paine likes him, and I expect my father will be guided by him. Oh! how I shall miss you! Mr. Ufford can never be what your husband has been to us; and there will be no compensation at all for the loss of you! Well, it is no use thinking of it; there are still three months left, I will not make them unhappy by anticipating the evil day; time enough when it comes. How do you think Dora is now? She looks very well.” “I do not know that she is otherwise; they thought her delicate in the summer, but I fancy she quite recovered both health and spirits before she joined her family in Scotland, and she has not been ailing since.” Hilary thought that this account did not agree with certain little notes she had received from time to time from Dora, speaking of a general disgust of life, an extreme want of spirits, and an inevitable tendency to a heart-broken death. But it was quite in accordance with her personal appearance, and her air of health and cheerfulness. Dinner at the Abbey was always a grand and stately affair. The guests felt they were assisting at an important and solemn ceremony, a guaranty of the respectability of the ancient house of Barham; a remnant of the feudal times and the pomps of former days, when baronial ancestors had been served by squires and pages themselves of noble birth. Clinging to almost the last remnant of those by-gone days, Mr. Barham was particular about his livery-servants: they were many, they were well-trained, and their costume was as handsome as good taste could make it. In that gorgeously lighted room, contrasting as completely as wealth and elegance could suggest, with the ancient refectory, or the convivial board of olden times, it was impossible to find a shadow of concealment; a screen of any kind, to preserve blushing cheeks or troubled eyes from the glance of the curious, or the inspection of the sharp-sighted. So Hilary found to her cost; the round table brought every one in sight of each other, and made every observation audible to the group. It was at this particular time that Mr. Huyton addressed her with a question regarding Maurice; he hoped he was well? She replied in the affirmative, trusting that no one in the circle would care enough for her brother, or so little for herself, as to pursue the subject. She was mistaken. Mr. Huyton forced her to tell him what was the name of his ship, and where she then was, which she could hardly do without naming Captain Hepburn, although to speak before him of her lover was peculiarly distressing. On this, Mr. Barham took up the subject, by asking if he had not seen the young man at “the Ferns;” a talk, dark man, about thirty; older a good deal than Miss Duncan? Hilary, blushing exceedingly, and conscious that more eyes were fixed on her than she liked to meet, said _that_ was not her brother; he was young and fair.