Mr. Ufford joined Hilary at the table where she was standing, turning over a book of prints, and entered into conversation on the topic of Hurstdene, its village, population, schools, church, and such particulars as might naturally be considered interesting to him. She found him, as Mrs. Paine had said, pleasing and gentle in manners, with a peculiar way of winning from those he conversed with their opinions; while he seldom committed himself by stating his own. It did not strike her at the time so much, but when she subsequently came to reflect upon their conversation, she found that she literally knew nothing more of his tastes, habits, opinions, and inclinations, than might be gathered from the courtesy with which he had listened to hers. It rather seemed, on review, as if he had been judging her, and for that purpose had succeeded in inducing her to develop her own views and feelings. She was not sure that she liked him; she hardly thought this fair, and she resolved, if they met again, to preserve greater equality in their steps toward a friendly acquaintance. They kept rather late hours at the Abbey; it was midnight before the party broke up, although there was nothing particular doing to entertain them. When, however, the ladies did retire, Hilary watched, with an indescribable interest, the greeting between Isabel and Charles Huyton; she could not keep her fancy from speculating on, and her heart from seriously wishing for their union, and she half hoped that the long conversation which had engrossed them both, after Mr. Duncan had left the drawing-room at his usual hour, might be indicative of an approach to the sentiments which she desired. His last words to her were spoken as easily, and in as disengaged a tone, as to Mrs. Paine herself, and Hilary went to her room, with a persuasion that the meeting was less uncomfortable than she could have expected. She drew a low chair to the fire, and sat down to think; but her reverie was soon interrupted by a light tap at the door she had not previously noticed, which, on opening, disclosed Dora Barham in her dressing-gown, with her long hair all hanging about her shoulders. “Our rooms adjoin, you see, dear Hilary,” said she, closing the door, and coming up to her friend. “I have sent my maid to bed, and now let me talk to you.” She threw herself on the carpet at her feet, laid her arm in Hilary’s lap, and looked up in her face with a wistful expression. “Oh, I am so unhappy! I do not the least know what to do. What ought I to do?――do tell me?” “My dearest Dora! how can I?” replied Miss Duncan, caressing the soft round cheek, and lovingly putting back the glossy hair which spread over her knee. “Oh, you do know a great deal. They want me to marry, and I can not, will not; you know why. But they do so want me to marry.” “Who do?” “Papa and Isabel, and Lady Margaret. Oh, it’s dreadful; you do not know what I have gone through these six months.”