“I will try to find her if you will excuse me for a few minutes.” Hilary had no little difficulty in persuading her sister to appear; she made some excuses about business and unfitness of dress, but finally yielded, with the air of one who resigns herself to walking to the stake. Her heart revolted from meeting her successful rival, and when she remembered the visits of former days, when her company had been assiduously sought as a screen and an excuse for other interviews, when she had been made so unconsciously to administer to her rival’s objects, and her own disappointment, it did require no small share of resolute fortitude to go through the ordeal before her. It was borne, however, as many other trials had been borne, by putting away thought and feeling, by avoiding to scan her own sensations, and simply taking pains to do the present duty rightly; as a traveler among precipices, on a narrow path, refuses to look down into the unguarded gulf below him, and keeps his faculties steady, by engaging every one in the task of setting the next footstep safely. The next day, as Hilary was busily engrossed in writing, she thought she heard a step behind her, and looking round, saw, to her surprise, Dora Barham standing there alone. Apparently she had just ridden over from the Abbey, but her hat was thrown off, and her long hair was hanging somewhat disordered down her pale cheeks, while she stood, with parted lips and fixed eye, and hands half raised, as if hesitating whether to speak, or to retire. “Dora, dear Dora!” said Hilary, holding out her hands. In another moment Dora was in her arms, hiding her face upon her shoulder, and sobbing out incoherent words of tenderness, sorrow, and self-reproach. Her friend did not speak, but caressed her softly, and waited until this ecstacy was over, well knowing, from experience, that Dora’s moods were somewhat changeable. At length she raised her head, and with downcast eyes, and tears trembling on the lashes, she asked, in an agitated voice, “Oh, Hilary! what do you think of me?” “That you are very kind to come and see me, dear,” replied Mrs. Hepburn, smiling gently. “Ah, well! perhaps it is wisest to say nothing of the past, we will talk of something else. This dear old place, this happy, happy room, that beloved garden. Oh, Hilary, Hilary! my heart will break.” “It is very painful to leave it,” replied Hilary; “it is always hard to give up scenes to which the heart clings, and I understand Mr. Ufford means to pull it all down, and build a new and larger vicarage. He can hardly make it grand enough for your sister’s habits, without making it too grand for the living.” “I dare say not,” said Dora, abstractedly. “You have removed the pictures?” Her eye had sought for one portrait which used to hang in that room. “Yes, most things are packed up, ready for removal: we go ourselves very soon.” “Ah, me! ah, me! and how is――how are your sailor friends?” Her cheeks varied from red to white.