On their return to the house, while Hilary supported and guided her father’s steps, he loitered behind with her sisters, strolling along the terrace, and laughing and chatting with them, telling Sybil he had found them out by the sound of her voice reading, which fortunately was not so much altered as her person was, or he should have run away, believing them to be a party of strangers. But when Mr. Duncan was safely past the window, by which he entered into his own room, and Hilary had turned away to take the path to the porch, he immediately joined her, and began, in a voice and words of sincerest sympathy, to inquire into the actual state of her father’s sight. She could speak of it calmly at last; use, and the quiet submission and unvarying cheerfulness of Mr. Duncan, had reconciled her to the idea, and she was able to tell him with composure, or rather resignation, that all was quite dark to him now; but that she was thankful to say, that the affliction had been so softened and modified, as to be far less terrible than she had imagined it could be. Then he alluded to Maurice; but here the chord of feeling vibrated too strongly; the tension had been too acute for it to harmonize entirely with faith and patience; and they sounded in a minor key, compared with the sharp tone that fear and suspense rang out. It was with quivering lips and trembling eyelids that she spoke of her brother’s danger, and it was with looks and tones of answering sympathy that Charles Huyton replied to her. Had not her eyes been at that moment blinded by her tears, she might have read how deep his feelings were. “It is very wrong, I know,” added she, dashing away the drops from her eye-lashes; “I ought to feel more resigned, knowing as I do he is in the same Hands still, and that nothing will happen but for the best. I still shrink and tremble inwardly as to what may be in store, although I ought to do better, considering the lessons of trust I have had.” He stepped into the porch, near which they were standing, and taking up a small basket from the bench, presented it to her. “You told me once,” said he, “that flowers preached to you, and taught you lessons of confidence and hope; may I trust that these will say something of the sort, and not be rejected?” He lifted the lid, and showed her a bunch of lilies of the valley, carefully arranged, with their roots in wet moss. “Oh! how exquisite!” she exclaimed, stooping over them to hide a little hesitating consciousness, and not venturing to take the basket from his hands; “these must be forced, Mr. Huyton!” “Yes; I found them this morning in my conservatory, and brought them here, thinking you would all like them. Will you not take them?” “It seems selfish when you have visitors coming to-morrow,” replied Hilary, still looking at them.