“I would rather it had been his wish; I could have borne his suspicions better,” said Charles, sadly. “But surely, could he see me now, he would not fear me. I only aspire to be your friend, I only ask for calm and quiet intercourse; I have no pretensions now which could create jealousy, or make him suppose me a rival. I own his superiority, I admire, I esteem him; my own hopes being gone, I may at least rejoice that one worthy of you has won you; I am resigned to my loss; why should you make it more bitter than necessity requires?” She was silent, but she drew back when he tried to take her hand. “If he did not mistrust me, why should you? _He_, at least, knows us both better, does more justice both to you and me. Why should you hesitate? It is such a small favor I ask. For your father’s sake, let me come sometimes and see him.” “No, Mr. Huyton, I can not. Unlimited trust deserves unwavering prudence. Do not ask again, it is decided. At Hurstdene, and on purpose, I will not meet you. Let me say now, farewell. It is hard to refuse one to whom I owe so much; it is hard to seem ungrateful; but it is best. But you shall always have my best wishes, my earnest prayers for your happiness; I will never forget that the hand I hold assisted to save my life.” “Would that I had perished then and there!” cried he, losing self-control for a moment. “Would that the water had closed upon us both――that I had gone down with you in my arms, rather than――” he stopped abruptly; footsteps were heard ascending the stairs, he was recalled to a thought of where he was; he only stayed one moment to press her hand in both of his, to kiss it with a warmth, a passionate ardor, which did not speak of cold friendship; to give her one sad, reproachful look, and then he rushed toward his own dressing-room, which was in an adjoining corridor, leaving Hilary to enter her apartment, near the door of which they had been standing, and there to conceal her excitement and her fears. She had proceeded but a little way in her preparations for departure, when Dora rushed into the room, her bonnet in one hand, and her cloak in the other. “I am going with you, Hilary, for the drive,” cried she; “the horses must stop there to rest; for I have made papa agree that it was more civil I should go home with you.” She seemed in great spirits, and danced about at intervals, while she was pretending to dress. “You are awake now, Dora,” said her friend, smiling; but her voice betrayed at once that her own tears were not far off. “What is the matter?” exclaimed Dora, stopping to look anxiously at her friend; “what have you been crying about, Hilary, tell me?” “Nothing worth talking of――my own folly,” replied Miss Duncan, turning away, and stooping to look at the lock of a carpet bag.