“I was thinking,” said Hilary, after a pause, and carefully steadying her voice, “that that oak was like my father, how grand and venerable it looks; and that glowing, golden sunbeam was Maurice’s visit to us, just slipping away; what a bright gleam it shed on us for a little time; and now it is over, and he will be left――as that tree will be――to the night-dews, and the cold light of the moon and stars, which may glimmer round him, and seem to make a show and brightness, but have no real warmth, or strength, or power, in their poor feeble beams.” “That is a comparison which does little justice to the bright light which shines on your father’s home and household,” replied Charles Huyton, warmly. “I know it, Mr. Huyton,” replied Hilary, understanding his words in a different sense from what he intended; “I know that he has that light within which makes external lights of little consequence. But yet, I can not help feeling that our home is not what it was once, and how sad, how desolate it must look to him. If I could but fill the place more effectually――but I am such a child――” “Maurice says, your only fault is that you are too anxious,” replied Charles Huyton, who found it much easier to praise Hilary than to answer her feelings. “Ah, Maurice does not know――” was her only answer. “You do not in general dispute his judgment,” said Charles, smiling a little. “Do not take your responsibilities so to heart――do not fancy that you are called on to wear yourself out; the very fact of taking things easily yourself, will make them easy to others also. Nobody expects a woman’s grave and severe prudence and consideration, from your youth. Give yourself more liberty, and take less trouble.” “Did Maurice tell you to say that to me?” inquired Hilary. “No――I say it of myself; I can see that you are over-anxious.” “Perhaps I am――but can one really be too anxious to do one’s duty, Mr. Huyton? Do I take uncalled-for tasks on myself――and if not, if, as I believe, what I do is merely what I ought to do, then, you know, it is what I have the power to do also. More is not required than is possible; ours is not a hard Master; but then the proper interest must be returned for the talents committed to us, or we are unfaithful as well as unprofitable servants.” He was silent, for she was talking in an unknown tongue to him, alluding to things as realities, whose existence he hardly recognized. “I know the fault is mine when I fail; and the merit, if I ever succeed, is His from whom help cometh,” added she, a little hesitatingly, as if in deprecation of his grave looks. “Maurice has given me leave, as far as he can, to try and fill his place,” said the young man; “and he referred me to you, as to the way in which I could be of use, and when I may come and see you.” “Will you really?” said Hilary, showing the most innocent pleasure at the prospect; “I thought when he was gone, you would not care much for coming here as you have done.”