“I neither know nor care,” replied he, hastily; “all I know is, that Thursday I will wed Dora, and that no persuasion, no argument of yours, shall move me from my purpose. No, Hilary! you were deaf to my prayers, cold to my earnest love, you turned from me with indifference, again and again. Now――” He did not finish his sentence, but raising his hat from his forehead, he bowed low, and then strode hastily away. Hilary sat down on the bench under the lime-tree, and wept bitterly. It was long before she raised her head from her hands; when she did, and looked round, twilight had fallen on the earth, and her last day at Hurstdene had closed in. Startled to find how late it was, she rose to return home, and with a lingering glance at the swelling turf and white tombstones, she walked toward the church-yard stile, her heart full of deep and holy thoughts, of heavenly aspirations and hopes. Her mind was brought back to present things by one of those rude contrasts which jar so painfully at such a time, while they recall the sad reality of sin in its coarsest aspect. Lolling upon the stile over which she had to pass, she saw through the gloom the figure of a man who, as well as she could judge, appeared to be a stranger, perhaps a traveling peddler, for his pack was on the wall beside him. He did not move as she approached, but seeing her, he said, in a voice which betrayed that he had been drinking, “A pleasant evening, my dear!” Hilary felt alarmed for a moment; but she had the courage of a brave woman, which, though it does not make her insensible to danger, even in the moment of alarm leaves her the calm possession of her faculties. She believed that to seem gravely self-possessed was the best check to vulgar insolence; and remembering that there were cottages close at hand, whose inmates she could summon by a cry, she said, in a calm voice, which would have influenced a sober man immediately―― “I will trouble you to allow me to pass, my good man.” The ruffian, however, was insensible to the tone and manner of her appeal, and only quitted his position to grasp her arm, swearing that he always made a pretty girl pay toll. Hilary started back, and raising her voice, called by name upon the inhabitants of the nearest dwelling for assistance; but hardly had she uttered a single cry when a strong arm was thrown round her waist, and so powerful a blow at the same moment was discharged in the face of her assailant, as leveled him to the ground. Half-lifted, half-voluntarily springing over the stile, she found herself safe upon the green, while Charles Huyton, whose arm had so opportunely defended her, supported her in silence toward her home. At the same time other steps were heard approaching, and the cottager on whom she had called, hurried up to demand whether any thing were the matter. Hilary paused, and though with some difficulty commanding her voice, she replied,