“Oh, yes! Hilary has some of her own, which I know she likes very much,” replied Sybil, eagerly. “But she would like these best,” said Gwyneth, decidedly; pointing to a book of drawings, between the leaves of which she had furtively peeped. It was a collection of drawings, copied from some of the most celebrated works of good artists, all done in a masterly style. “She shall have her choice,” replied their host, looking much pleased; “you bring the book, and I will carry the case of cameos.” Again Hilary begged him not to trouble himself, but without any effect: a small table was placed beside her, and one article after another produced for her amusement. Her admiration of the colored drawings was extreme, and evidently highly gratifying to her host. “How much my father would enjoy these,” said she to Maurice. “If you think them worth the trouble of carrying home with you,” said Mr. Huyton, “I shall be only too much flattered to lend them to you. I can see, by your careful handling of them, the book would be as safe with you as with me.” “They are exquisitely beautiful,” said Hilary, gazing with intense admiration at a copy of one of Raphael’s best works. “Who was the artist?” “I made the copies myself,” was his reply; an answer which brought Hilary’s eyes on him with a look of reverence and admiration. The coffee was soon brought in, most excellent of its kind; indeed, whatever they saw, belonging to Mr. Huyton, which could be supposed finished, appeared as perfect as possible. Although it was evident that as yet hardly any thing was in its place, and the whole house had the air of having been so long neglected, that Hilary could not wonder that its progress towards order and classification had gone on slowly. “I shall get on by degrees,” said he, in answer to some observation of hers relative to the labor before him. “By-and-by, when the library has been new floored and cleaned, we will have these carved book-frames put up, of which that is a specimen. But I like to superintend the whole. It doubles the value of a place to arrange it all oneself: unless one had the happiness of falling in with some second mind and fancy, which could sympathize with and enter into one’s own peculiarities and wishes.” “And do you not find the noise and bustle of workmen disagreeable, Mr. Huyton?” asked Hilary. “I do not mind it; and when I am tired I go out in the forest, or stroll about, and form plans for the ground and gardens.” “There used to be a famous garden here always,” observed Maurice; “many a time have I bought peaches and nectarines at the Lodge gates in former years.” “These windows look up that beautiful avenue, I see,” said Hilary; “what magnificent timber you have about here.”