“I had to go to Hitchinboro’ about some business, and could not come earlier. Miss Duncan, is it too late for a walk? I had hoped to be in time to finish that sketch of the old oak-tree.” “I don’t know,” said Hilary, trying to rouse herself. “What do you say, Maurice?” “If my father will come,” replied he. “I should not like to leave him for the whole evening; and he talked of wanting to visit those cottages by the tree.” Hilary said she would go and see; and rising, left the room. “Poor dear girl!” said Maurice, looking after her; “do you know what it is to leave such dear ones, Charles?――I could cry just now with pleasure.” “Your sister will miss you immensely,” replied Mr. Huyton; “but she has so uncommon a degree of self-control and firmness of character, that I have no doubt but she will bear up under it with vigor.” “Hilary is not the least like any other girl I ever saw,” replied Maurice, thoughtfully, “and I have seen a good many, one way or another; she is just a hundred times better than any one I ever came across; you might live with her ten years, and never know her do a selfish or an unkind thing. I really do not believe she ever thinks of herself.” “It is certainly rare to see one so young so thoughtful and womanly in her mind,” said Charles Huyton, earnestly. “I think you told me she is not yet eighteen?” “Oh! no, only just turned seventeen; most girls are mere children at her age. To see how she teaches and manages the little ones, and cares for my father, and attends to all the old women and babies in the parish, knowing exactly who wants a flannel petticoat, or a pig, or a dose of rhubarb: it is really something wonderful! I do not believe she ever forgets any thing from one Sunday to another!” “Except herself,” replied the visitor. “Ay, except herself, in the right sense. I say, Charles, though, I have seen many girls forget themselves when I could have wished them a little more memory, for their own sakes; and you never see Hilary do that.” “Never――I wonder you can make up your mind to leave your family,” observed Charles Huyton, with the utter unconsciousness of the laws of necessity which young men of large fortunes, independent of guardians, sometimes feel. “What would you have?” said Maurice. “I must work, and, indeed, I love my profession; and but for these leave-takings, have nothing to complain of. If I am only lucky enough to get promoted by-and-by, when I am older, Hilary and I will settle down together in some little cottage on the sea-shore, and live on my half-pay and her fortune together, and be a regular old cozy brother and sister. That’s my notion of happiness. I don’t think either Hilary or I shall ever want to marry!” “Don’t you?” observed his friend, with a somewhat incredulous smile.