“How can you talk so?” exclaimed her sister; “it is quite improper. You have had a very good education for a lady!” “Well, I happened to see one of the maids cleaning the grate to-day in my room, and she looked so busy, so happy, and was chirrupping so cheerfully to herself, that I could not help stopping her to ask her what made her so merry; and she said in a frightened voice, as if excessively ashamed of herself, that she had no time to be unhappy, so she could not help it; for she had so much to do, that really, if she had a mind to fret, she should not have a minute to spare, for she was quite an underhousemaid, you see, and had to do the work, while the others looked after her. I told her I envied her.” “You ought not to put such ideas into their heads, Dora; it is republican and leveling.” “I do not think what I said will do any harm, Isabel. Hilary, if you had to work for your bread, what would you do? Should you not like it?” “I believe I do it pretty much now,” replied Miss Duncan; “and I do not particularly wish for a change.” “Well, I do,” said Dora, closing her eyes, and sinking into profound silence. The morning past, the luncheon hour arrived, and not till after that did Mr. Huyton make his appearance, nor did he publicly account for his absence, or at all explain where, or how he had spent the three or four hours during which he had disappeared. The Duncans were to return home after luncheon, and as Hilary was proceeding up the long stairs to her room, to prepare for her departure, she encountered him at the top of them. He stood back a little, as if to let her pass, but turned and joined her in the gallery. “Are you going?” said he, wistfully looking at her. “Yes, presently; you have been riding, have you not?” “I have been to Hurstdene.” Hilary looked surprised. “Yes, I spent the morning there; I longed, with an inexpressible longing, to see those scenes again, to tread those walks, look at those walls once more. You were here, my presence at the Vicarage could not disturb _you_; could excite no anger in you; I ventured to gratify my wishes. To take one more view of the place I dearly loved, where I was once welcomed as a constant, and only too happy guest.” “Did you see my sisters?” asked Hilary, embarrassed and pained. “Yes, they were as kind as ever. I have at least one thing to thank you for――you have kept my secret well. Dear girls! they little knew, when they playfully reproached me for my long absence, whose wish it was it should be so! It is noble of you, Miss Duncan, to allow me to retain their good will; not to teach them to view me with aversion; not to inspire them with the cold dislike you entertain toward me yourself.” “Indeed, you do me injustice, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, gently, and pausing, in the gallery through which they were passing; “it is not aversion that I feel for you.”