“It might not be a wrong influence; I meant no harm! I know that, though angry at your marriage, he still looks up to you, respects you, esteems you above all other women; and a word from you, such as you have spoken just now to me, would, perhaps, awaken him to a sense of right and wrong, might arouse some remorse and repentance before it is too late.” “Dear Dora, I believe you to be most entirely mistaken; and even could I with propriety speak, the opportunity may never occur, and your conduct, your decision, ought not to depend upon the chance of my speaking, or the possibility of my influencing him. Act for yourself; follow your own sense of duty, and dare to be true even at last.” Dora sighed heavily, and turned away. More Hilary said to the same purpose, but in vain; Miss Barham continued uncertain and miserably undecided, and when at length she quitted the Vicarage, it was with no assurance that she would not, after all, pursue the dangerous road that she was treading. Her last words were: “Oh, Hilary, why did you not love and marry him, then we might all have been happy!” The sisters’ residence at the Vicarage was rapidly drawing to a close. A long farewell had been said to every well-known forest nook and glade, each beloved haunt of bygone days; a sad leave had been taken of each parishioner, each lowly friend and affectionate well-wisher, many parting tokens had been humbly but kindly offered, from those who had known them from childhood, or begged as precious memorials of the late Vicar and his daughters, by the sorrowful parishioners, who still grieved for their best friend. The last Sunday came, and they knelt for the last time on the spot where for years their devotions had been offered up. Every look was now a pain, every action almost caused a pang, and both sisters ardently wished the time were come which should put an end to the sorrowful dream in which they now seemed to move. There was no outward demonstration of their grief, it wore the calm, grave, torpid aspect, that a dull November day presents, when the sky is all shrouded in a somber vail of gray, and the distant hills wear the same heavy tint; while no wind moves through the half-bare trees, or wakens the waters to life. Over such a scene silence and stillness brood, the silence of death-like sleep, made only more apparent as the soft rustle of a falling leaf catches the ear, or the eye is attracted by its movement, as it calmly floats to the dull earth beneath. The afternoon of Monday, the last afternoon they were to spend in their old home, Hilary walked down alone to visit for the last time the graves of those so dear to her, and look once more on the favorite spot where many a peaceful hour had been spent.