“I rather suspect,” replied Hilary, “you mistake your real motives. You know your father likes you to go into society, and is pleased when you are admired; and this, I have no doubt, is what makes you like it too. If nobody wished you to go out, I dare say you would be as quietly domestic as I am, Dora.” “I do not know; I believe if any body I cared for wished me to stay at home, I should yield to them with delight. One comfort is, I know the London dissipation will make me ill, and then I shall be forced to be quiet.” “That is an odd sort of comfort, Dora,” said Hilary, smiling; “one I can not wish for you!” “It is her nonsense,” observed Isabel. “Indeed, it is not. I was quite knocked up last year; and I am not so strong now. I mean, when I am ill, to ask Mrs. Paine to take me, for change of air, to Primrose Bank, and try how I like small rooms and a moderate establishment.” “Here come Mr. and Mrs. Paine,” observed Gwyneth, who was sitting by a window; “you can settle with her at once, Dora; it would be so nice to have you at Primrose Bank.” Mr. Paine went to Mr. Duncan’s study; his wife came to the drawing-room, bringing with her little Nest, who had been saying her lessons to her papa. There were some parish matters to be discussed first with Hilary; and then, before Dora had time to mention her plans for her expected illness, Mrs. Paine observed, looking earnestly at Hilary, “What is the matter, dear?――have you had bad news of any kind to-day?” “Not _bad_; at least, not necessarily so,” replied Miss Duncan; “but we heard from abroad to-day.” “Your brother! nothing wrong about him, I hope.” Hilary’s eyes filled, but she spoke calmly. Maurice had been ill, very ill, of a most dangerous fever; the danger was over now, they hoped, but, indeed, they believed it had been extreme, and he was not yet well enough to write himself. Their letter had been from his captain, who had most kindly written to his father, to assure him that danger was now over, and that they hoped, by care and attention, to restore this promising young officer to his family and his country; there was one to the same effect from the surgeon, also, who had written at the express desire of Captain Hepburn, to certify his being now in a state of convalescence. “It was so kind, so very kind, of Captain Hepburn to write,” pursued Hilary, with emotion; “and such a beautiful, feeling letter, speaking, oh, in such terms of Maurice, and so desirous to spare my father’s feelings. I knew Maurice liked him very much, and now I do not wonder.” “What a wonderful girl you are, you dear thing!” said Dora, caressing her; “having all this on your mind, and yet teaching and talking, as if nothing had been the matter. How did you see, Fanny? for I never discovered any change in Hilary.” “Perhaps, Dora,” said Mrs. Paine, “because you are more accustomed to attend to your own feelings than those of other people.”