“I only hope she will not over-work herself; she is too anxious about every thing; and with nobody to help her, the three children come heavily upon her. Charles, you will come and see them sometimes when I am gone?” “Sometimes!” replied Mr. Huyton, quietly. Maurice turned round abruptly. “I am selfish for her sake, perhaps; but you must excuse me; don’t come if you do not like, however. I thought perhaps――but never mind; I daresay you have plenty to do much pleasanter than dawdling about here with such rustics as we all are.” “There is nothing I like better, upon my honor. My great fear has been, that your absence would make a difference――that perhaps I should not be admitted. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to think there need be no change.” “No change! well, I do not say that; but let Hilary settle the change for herself. I only wish you could help her teach the children a little,” added he, laughing; “but I am afraid you can not quite take my place as tutor.” “We will see,” was the reply, gravely given. The little girls came running in, equipped for walking, and summoned the two young men to join Mr. Duncan and his daughter, who were out at the gate, settling Nest in the pannier of a pony, that being the way in which that young lady made her excursions with her sisters; and on this occasion she was not to be left behind. There was a good deal of desultory conversation passed between the family, not the least connected with the subject which occupied their minds; _that_ was too sorrowful to be dwelt on; and both Maurice and Hilary thought more of their father, and of amusing him, than of indulging their own low spirits at the moment. When they came to the Great Oak, it was settled that Maurice should accompany Mr. Duncan as he went round to visit a few scattered huts and hovels, inhabited by a wild and somewhat lawless race of wood-cutters, brickmakers, and poachers, who had located themselves in this secluded spot, while Hilary and Sybil sat down, under Mr. Huyton’s protection, to finish a sketch of the old tree. “How well it looks this evening,” observed he; “the tawney russet shade which has tinged the leaves, shows well against those orange-colored beech-trees which back it up. If you can but catch the effect of that slanting sunbeam falling on those bright leaves, and tinging the trunk with gold! It is made for a picture!” Hilary laid down her pencil, and gazed abstractedly at the scene till the tears gathered in her eyes, and first blinded her sight, and then dropped on her sketch-book and blotted her drawing. Her companion saw it, and gently drew it away from under her hands, to which she passively submitted, hardly knowing what he did, and hoping to quiet her emotion more easily by keeping silence. “The sunbeam may fade to-night,” whispered he, “but it will come again to-morrow, Miss Duncan; and we can sleep away the hours of darkness, with the hope of a brighter dawn.”