Isabel Barham in due time paid a visit of condolence to her friends at the Vicarage. Hilary met her alone, Gwyneth was busy, and did not appear. Miss Barham seemed really touched as she saw Mrs. Hepburn’s pale cheeks and black garments; perhaps the contrast of their present situations struck her, perhaps she remembered how much of pain and sorrow had followed Hilary, since the time when she had been a bride. She spoke kindly and affectionately, and inquired with great interest as to their intentions. “We shall leave this next week,” said Hilary. “Maurice and Captain Hepburn are both desirous we should be nearer the southern coast, and we think of a house not very far from Southampton. Mr. Farrington has a sister settled there, and though we should not like to live in a town, it would not be convenient to be very far from one.” “Then we shall lose you quite, I fear; I was half in hopes we should have had you settled in this neighborhood still. I was talking to Mr. Huyton about Primrose Bank for you, but he did not seem much to like it.” “Thank you for thinking of us; but to have us within an easy distance of either London or Portsmouth is my husband’s object, and Southampton unites both. He and my brother are my sister’s guardians, and we shall, I hope, always continue to live together.” “That will be very nice; and Hilary, you will not mind my asking as a friend, you will be comfortable as to circumstances――income I mean?” “Yes, we shall do very well; we have never been accustomed to luxury, and we shall not have much to resign of that kind.” “I see you have been packing up,” said Isabel, looking round. “Yes, such things as we take with us; Maurice would like us to keep all, but there is much that it would not be worth while to move. He has left it entirely to my discretion.” “And this will be my farewell visit then; I am afraid I shall be too much occupied to come again. By-the-by, Dora told me to ask if you would see her; I wanted her to come with me, but she had some scruples, I could not understand what, and only sent a message.” “Yes, I should,” said Hilary, with warmth, “I should indeed like to see her, pray tell her so. How is Lord Dunsmore now; have you better accounts of him?” A shade passed over Isabel’s face. “Why, the accounts lately have spoken of his being better; he has seemed to rally a little since the death of his child, but those sort of partial revivals are not uncommon in pulmonary complaints, and I can not imagine that, ill as he has been, he has any real chance of recovery.” “I thought,” observed Hilary, “that it was doubtful whether his was a pulmonary attack.” “I believe one or two physicians pretended to doubt it,” replied Isabel, a little impatiently; “but the most eminent declared it hopeless, and no one could see him, I should suppose, and question his having every appearance of a victim to consumption.” “Can I not see Gwyneth?” continued Isabel, after a pause.