“Then, my child, I must submit to be dependent on you for eyes; thank God, that I have still a daughter!” She pressed his hand, words could not come, and she was too shy to caress him before strangers; but Charles saw that her feelings were wrought to the uttermost, that composure was on the point of giving way, and only anxious to release her, addressed Mr. Duncan, so as to call off his attention. Hilary had sufficient fortitude quietly to withdraw her hand, and then escaping from the room, rushed into her father’s study, where, throwing herself on a chair, and burying her face in her hands, she gave way to sobs deep and agonizing, such as are the outpourings of suppressed feeling alone, the quivering of the spring long held in suspense. She was not aware that Mr. Paine had continued in the study after her father left it; at the moment of her entrance he was sitting in a large chair, engrossed in reading, but startled from his occupation by her appearance, and the expressive agony she betrayed, he looked at her for a minute in silent commiseration, and then rising, and approaching close to her, he said, in a peculiarly gentle and sweet voice, “Miss Duncan, I am grieved to see you so much distressed; has any thing occurred?” She started at the sound of his voice, but her feelings were too strongly moved for ceremony, and the soft, kind tone went to her heart like the words of a friend. “Oh, my father! my father!” she sobbed, “all hope is gone; he is, he must be――” then her voice was choked again in an agony of tears. “M. de la Récaille gives no hope, then?” said he, very gently; “I am indeed grieved.” “Ah, if it had been to me,” exclaimed Hilary, “I think I could have borne it better; but for my father, dear, dear father, that he should be helpless, dependent, dark――he who has such intense pleasure in beauty, who has been so active, so busy all his life――that he should be reduced to the state――oh, for submission, resignation, faith like his!” “Is he much disappointed at the result?” inquired Mr. Paine. “No, oh, no; he never hoped at all; and he is so good, so trustful!” “Dear Miss Duncan,” said Mr. Paine, drawing a chair close beside hers, “short as our acquaintance has been, it is impossible for me not to be interested in your father and family; and the future connection between us, the claim which I hope to have as your pastor, when I come to assist Mr. Duncan in his duties here, makes me feel that I have a right to speak to you. Will you let me address you as a friend, or shall I be intruding unpleasantly on a sorrow I would gladly assuage or mitigate?” Hilary raised her head, and wiping away her tears, she said, with a sort of watery smile, “Be our friend, Mr. Paine, and speak; I deserve reproof for my rebellion to the will of heaven!”