Mrs. Duncan shuddered, and closed her eyes, as if struggling with some deep emotion. “Why should you?” said Hilary, anxiously. “Dearest mother, do you feel ill now? It is so long since you have had one of your bad attacks of pain; not for months now; I am sure you need not be alarmed.” Mrs. Duncan smiled; a faint smile it was, as if she would rather put aside a subject of discussion than enter on it. Then, after a pause, she added, “I believe you will find all my papers and accounts quite clear, and for the rest, dear Hilary, you are well able to take my place in the parish now; and whatever may occur, you must do it for a month at least. But there are horses’ feet upon the turf; your father and sisters are coming home. Say nothing at present of what I have told you, and let us go to meet them!” They rose, and advanced toward the house; crossing a part of the garden, of which the terrace where they had been walking formed the eastern boundary. Dividing the lawn from an open green space which lay in front of the old rectory, was a line of wooden palings nearly covered by ivy, honeysuckle, roses, and many flowering shrubs, and over this they saw, approaching through a shadowy glade, three forest ponies; the tallest bore Mr. Duncan, an elderly man, whose figure was, however, active and upright, and his countenance marked with the glow of health and the look of peace; the other two riders were girls, the Sybil and Gwyneth already mentioned, whose black eyes, and long waving locks flowing from beneath their broad-brimmed straw hats, immediately reminded you of their mother. The children, for they were only girls of twelve and thirteen, sprung from their little ponies, and rushed up to the garden gate, just as Mrs. Duncan and Hilary reached it; and before their father had descended in his more leisurely way, and consigned the animals to the old gray-headed servant who came forward to receive them, they had advanced far in the history of their ride, its adventures, delights, and novelties. They had found a new path, had come to a beautiful stream; Gwyneth had leaped her horse across before papa came up; Sybil was afraid, and had hung back, even when encouraged by him; then they had seen such a lovely dell, all surrounded with trees――oh! such a place for a gipsey party; mamma must come there some day, and they would have tea out there, under the huge oaks and beech, beside that broken mossy bank, out of which such a bright tiny stream trickled from under a gray stone. Up came papa, and listened to the eager speaker, as Gwyneth, with her cheeks glowing, and her bright eyes glittering, dwelt with rather too much complacency, perhaps, upon the courage she had shown, until her father reminded her, with laughing but affectionate manner, how Gwyneth herself had shrunk and trembled when, as they were leading their ponies down a steep and precipitous path, a large toad had crossed the road, and hopped toward her; while Sybil’s only care had been that the