Hilary knew Dora better than this wayward little thing knew herself. She came back very penitent and humble, before she could sleep; and after a great deal of kissing and crying for her crossness, she ended by insisting on sleeping with Hilary, and taking that opportunity of keeping her friend awake half the night, talking alternately of Captain Hepburn and Maurice. The morning hours after breakfast passed rather heavily away. The ladies were together in their sitting-room, the gentlemen were all invisible, nobody exactly knew where. Isabel was grave, Dora was languid, and Hilary was thoughtful. “Where’s Mr. Huyton?” yawned Dora; “how stupid of him not to come and talk to us! I am so tired. What’s become of him, Isabel?” “Really I do not know; perhaps he is in the library.” “No, I went in there, just now, and Mr. Ufford was all alone, reading St. Augustine, I believe, and making extracts. You may guess I did not disturb him. Where is your father, Hilary?” “He and Mr. Paine are together,” said Miss Duncan. “Oh, how tired I am,” said Dora, laying a very pale cheek against the crimson back of her easy chair. “Mr. Huyton never goes away in general, where can he be?” “I should not wonder if he has gone to ‘the Ferns,’” observed Mrs. Paine. Isabel looked up. “What makes you think so, Fanny?” asked she. “I heard him order his horse to be ready immediately after breakfast, and you know he left the table early.” “Ah, I dare say he had business, and that brought him down into the country,” said Miss Barham, quietly; “he feels so much at home here, that as his own house is not habitable at present, he naturally resorts to ours, when he wants a brief habitation.” From all which Hilary gathered, that when with the Barhams, either at the Abbey or elsewhere, he was accustomed generally to make himself agreeable. “I wish something would happen!” said Dora, presently, with another yawn. “What?” inquired Mrs. Paine. “Oh, any thing, an event! something to rouse and excite one; to give one a fillip. I do not quite want an earthquake, but I should like something!” “Poor child!” said Mrs. Paine, laughing; “it wants a new toy, or a nice cake.” “No, it is sick of cakes, and tired of toys,” said Dora; “it wants good wholesome food, and a little work instead of play. I should like to lose my fortune, and have to work for my bread. I think I could be happy then.” “Pretty work you would make of it!” said Isabel; “I wonder how you would begin.” “Why, really, that is a problem worth solving,” replied Dora; “I wonder too. What part of my education do you suppose was intended to fit me for the storms of adversity? which branch of the distorted and grotesque plant, which forms my small portion of the Tree of Knowledge, would be of the slightest use to me in distress? I think I might, perhaps, be capable of engaging as a ballet-dancer; but as to any thing else, I am sure I can not guess.”