While they three were sitting together round the tea-table, Charles Huyton said, rather to the surprise of Mr. Duncan, “Do you know, sir, I am thinking of going abroad.” “Abroad!” exclaimed the vicar, with an expression of sorrow in his countenance; “I had hoped, Charles, you were going to settle here for life.” “So did I, at one time,” replied Charles; “but circumstances have interfered, and I am proposing a visit to my mother’s family at Dresden; they have asked me several times during the last two years, and now I mean to go.” “When? soon? not directly, I hope?” said Mr. Duncan, still looking much concerned. “Yes, immediately; when a disagreeable thing has to be done, the sooner it is commenced the better. Unless Miss Duncan will give me leave to call to-morrow to say farewell to her sisters, I shall perform that painful ceremony to you both to-night.” He fixed his eyes on Hilary with a look of meaning, which she had great difficulty in _not_ seeing. “Come to-morrow, by all means,” replied Mr. Duncan. “Hilary, dear, the girls will be able to see him then, and they would break their hearts at missing him altogether. Are you going with any permanent views of settling in life, Charles? Excuse my curiosity, but do you mean to bring home a bride with you? Or, perhaps, you will marry and stay there.” “Most decidedly not,” exclaimed he, eagerly and warmly; “there is not the smallest prospect of either one or the other. All my affections are centered in England, all my hopes of happiness are founded on a residence at ‘the Ferns,’ and every prospective plan of fancy, or retrospective glance of happy memory, will carry me at once to the parish of Hurstdene. You will see me here again as soon as it is in my power to come.” “I shall never see you here again, Charles,” replied the vicar, with a gentle shake of his head, and a very patient smile. “My dear sir, do not imagine such a thing; I trust to be with you at least in the spring.” “I trust you will, my dear Charles; but do you not understand what I mean? Before that time my old eyes will be quite worn out; at the rate in which they have lately failed me, they will be totally dark before the spring comes, and I shall not see your face, though you may look on mine when you return.” “I am shocked to hear you say so,” exclaimed Charles, with a face of the deepest sympathy. His glance went from the father to the daughter; Hilary was very pale, and her brimming eyes and quivering lips warned him not to speak to her at that moment; he turned again to the vicar. “But can nothing be done, dear sir? have you had advice? _must_ this sad fate befall you? Do not believe it inevitable till it is proved to be so.”