No――she did not love Charles Huyton; no thought of him mingled with her reflections on her nineteenth birth-day. CHAPTER IV. “Far, far from each other Our spirits have grown; And what heart knows another? Ah! who knows his own?” ARNOLD. Mr. Huyton, it may be presumed, did not know that Hilary gave him so small a part in her thoughts, or he probably would not have acted as he did on that very day. However, I will not venture positively to affirm this; for such are the inconsistencies and contradictions of human nature, that it is safer to calculate on resolutions being broken, and promises forfeited, than on the exact performance of either. Charles Huyton’s resolutions had not been communicated to others, and his promises were made only to himself, so there was no one who could charge him with inconsistency, or blame him for want of faith, when, after having firmly resolved to conceal his opinions and wishes with regard to Hilary, he betrayed them to her on her nineteenth birth-day. She was standing in the church-yard, beside the graves of her own mother and her step-mother, recalling her past life, and renewing her resolutions to watch over, guard, and devote herself to her younger sisters, when Charles Huyton, directed by some extraordinary instinct, discovered and joined her there. It was a very picturesque little spot. The east window, which was handsome in itself, formed the background; a beautiful spreading lime, with its pale tassels just then in full blossom, hung overhead, and sheltered it from the north; the graves were carefully preserved, and planted with myrtle, rosemary, and some other evergreens; and the wall of the church was richly decorated with large purple and white-flowered clematis, Virginia creeper, and climbing roses. Hilary was sitting on a bench under the lime-tree, plunged in profound meditation, when Mr. Huyton, whose footstep was inaudible on the short turf, presented himself before her. “You have chosen rather a mournful place of retirement, Miss Duncan,” said he, seating himself by her, after the first greeting; “may I venture to remain with you, or do you court solitude as well as gloom?” “I do not feel either solitude or gloom in this spot, Mr. Huyton,” said she, quietly; “but it seems to me a wholesome occupation for the mind sometimes to quit the brightness of life for the calm repose of such a scene as this.” He did not answer immediately――he was reading the inscription on the headstones before him; she, too, was silent. After some minutes, he turned to her. “I should like to know the thoughts which occupy you so deeply,” said he. She colored a little, and replied, “They are sacred to the memory of the departed; but there are so many thoughts which come in such a place as this――I _could_ not tell them if I would.” “The most prominent one, then――will you not trust me?” “I was thinking how false our lives are to our professed principles.”