“I asked James who had done that? He did not know, but old Martin told me it was Mr. Huyton of ‘the Ferns’――again I ask why? He is still abroad, poor man! and oh! poor, _poor_ Dora! she is much the same, yet they fancy there are dawnings of intellect sometimes. I have seen her companion, Miss Lightfoot; I am not allowed to see her. Lady Margaret, you know, lives at the Abbey. Poor Mr. Barham is so changed; he looks humbled and heart-broken. “After all, Hilary, real sorrow may be a great blessing; and can those who have never known grief――a grief they were not ashamed to feel and acknowledge, can they know how to feel for others? I think not. “Lord D. went round with me, and visited all the old people; they seemed quite glad to see me again, and asked, oh! so many questions about you all. The curate is very good and attentive; I don’t fancy they see much of the vicar; I wonder why I ever supposed him such a devoted clergyman; yet he seems always immersed in business, desperately occupied. I believe it is _system_ he wants; I am sure our parish at Ufford is much better managed; but then with two such heads as ‘my lord’s,’ and Mr. Barton’s, no wonder. “Things have certainly got wrong somehow. Isabel would have made a better wife to a peer than a priest, and there can not be a doubt but that George would have been a better clergyman than his brother; though to fill his own station better than Lord D. does would be quite impossible. I must not write any more, he is calling me to walk――” Maurice listened in silence to this letter, and after some meditation, he observed, “How happy Gwyneth is!” Just then Nest entered the room. “How it blows,” she observed, as she sat down; “and it is so dark; I looked out just now, to try and catch a glimpse of the sea, but every thing was as black as pitch; and, oh, such a roar of waves!” “Just the night for me to visit the South Point Station,” observed Maurice, rising; “and it is time I was gone, too; but this pleasant fire and good tea make one lazy, Nest.” “Must you ride all along those cliffs to-night, Maurice?――it is such a storm!” observed Hilary. She had not yet become accustomed to the night-work, so as to see him depart without anxiety. “Oh, that’s nothing!” said he, as he put on his great pilot coat; “and this is a fine night for smugglers: suppose I were to intercept a cargo to-night.” The horse was brought round, and his sisters both went to the door to see him mount. They stood within the shelter of the porch, shading a candle as well as they could from the draft, while its flickering streams of light fell on exterior objects, forming grotesque shadows and strange contrasts, and then losing themselves in the dark back-ground. Maurice kissed them both, and bade them go to bed, then mounted and trotted off over the hill.