“To marry!” said Hilary; “what, to marry in a general way, or is there some one in particular? You talk vaguely.” “Oh, one man in particular: Mr. Ufford!” “What, this clergyman?” “Oh, no, his elder brother, a much older man, a widower, too, with one little girl; think of wanting to make me a step-mother.” “And do you not like this gentleman?” “No, not much, pretty well; he is pleasant, and good, and kind. I like him better than his brother here; he is much more open and generous; only if he would have been so obliging as not to fancy himself in love with me, I should have liked him much better.” “And now, where is he? is he still wanting to marry you?” “He says, of course, if I am so averse, he will not press his suit; but he shall and must love me to the end of time; and papa says I am a silly child, and do not know my own mind. And oh, Hilary, he said――‘Dora, if you loved another, I would not have pressed you to accept this offer; but since your heart is disengaged, there is no reason that you should not marry a man of such a character and such a position as Mr. Ufford!’” “And what did you say, Dora?” Dora hid her face and sobbed, then said―― “I complained of his age, his daughter, my youth, my indifference, but I got no pity. They would not admit these to be objections.” “Then you could not plead that your affections were pre-engaged, Dora?” Again the face was hidden, and there was silence. “Dora!” said Hilary, stooping and kissing her, “do not be ashamed to say so, if you are indifferent to _him_; I shall not blame you, if you have conquered an imprudent inclination; speak to me, say is that the case?” “No,” cried she, with vehemence, and raising her flushed face suddenly, “I have not. I love your brother better than ever; absence, time, separation, make no difference. I love him now, and I shall love him forever!” “Then why not tell your father? had you owned it then, you would have been able to explain all.” “I was going to. I intended to have told him; I was only thinking how to begin, when he silenced me by adding, ‘I say this, Dora, because I feel assured any daughter of mine would be incapable of forming or owning to an unworthy passion; of encouraging an affection beneath her, of consulting wild and childish fancies, rather than the claims of her family, the advancement of her best interests, and the maintenance of that elevated position in society, in which she has been placed by her birth and fortune.’ What could I say after that, Hilary? Own that I loved a poor lieutenant! I dared not.” There followed a long silence. To urge on her friend measures which, if they did not altogether embroil her with her father, would be so much more advantageous to Maurice than to Dora, was impossible for Hilary. She had given her opinion of right and wrong, she could do no more; so the two girls sat together, looking at the fire, and each plunged in thought.