“Dora, if you had stood as I so recently did by a death-bed, if you had witnessed how solemn a thing it is to prepare to render up the soul, how the weakness of the body prostrates the powers of the mind, and how even the humblest, truest faith, does not exclude bitter penitence for failings long past and errors known besides only to the Great Creator, you would not, you could not, wish to rush unprepared to such a solemn work as dying. Think, Dora, if after such a life as my father’s, there was so much regret for misspent moments, such humble acknowledgment of unfulfilled duties, think what it would be to face our end, because we are too weak to suffer for the truth; what madness to call on death to save us from earthly fears, and dare to face our Judge, because we will not do our duty here, from dread of a fellow-creature’s censure! oh, Dora, consider!” “Tell me about your father, Hilary,” said Dora, in a broken voice, and hiding her eyes against her friend’s knees; and Mrs. Hepburn thinking that, perhaps, to turn her thoughts from herself might be useful, related such particulars of Mr. Duncan’s death-bed as she believed might soothe and interest her auditor. She was seriously alarmed for Dora’s state of mind. There was a restlessness in her eyes, a nervous twitching of her muscles, a variation in her complexion, and other similar symptoms, which she thought indicated extreme mental excitement; and her wildly variable manner, her sudden changes of subject in conversation, and her extraordinary tones, confirmed these fears. She appeared, so far as Hilary could judge, like one on the brink of a violent fever; and the thought passed through her mind, that, perhaps, the marriage she so deeply deprecated, might, after all, be arrested by causes over which even Mr. Huyton had no control. Dora sat for some time profoundly silent, and, except for the occasional deep heaving of her breast, quite composed outwardly. At length, when Mrs. Hepburn ceased speaking, she slowly rose, and after kissing her two or three times, she walked away to the window, and stood there looking out in silence. Then she said, but without turning round: “Hilary, if there is one person whose influence could induce Charles Huyton to break off this hateful marriage, one who could soften his heart, and lead him to have pity on me, on Maurice, on himself, it is _you_. If you would intercede for us!” “Dora,” said Hilary, hurriedly interrupting her, “you mistake; you are not thinking of what you are saying. I can have no such power as you suppose; and for me to interfere in any way with him, would be alike useless and impossible. I can do you no good.” “Ah, you do not know――his former feeling for you is still――” “Hush, Dora; if former feeling for me exists, it is an insult and a wrong to hear of it; an insult to me, a wrong to my husband. What influence could the wife of Captain Hepburn exercise over the mind of Mr. Huyton, in such a cause?”