The visitor entered the door, and there he found Maurice sitting on a portmanteau, in the hope that his weight would bring the two sides into fair proximity to each other; while Hilary was half kneeling, half sitting on the floor, from which she made a sort of motion to rise as he entered, looking at him with very pale cheeks and mournful eyes. “I had no idea, my dear fellow! you were going so soon,” said Charles Huyton, quietly placing himself beside his friend on the portmanteau. “Oh the misery of packing up,” added he, taking a curious look round the room at the various litters it contained.
“Well, we have done for to-day,” replied Maurice; “I never got through it so nicely before; but Hilary, dear, we will rest now. I say, Charles, where have you been?”
“I had to go to Hitchinboro’ about some business, and could not come earlier. Miss Duncan, is it too late for a walk? I had hoped to be in time to finish that sketch of the old oak-tree.”
“I don’t know,” said Hilary, trying to rouse herself. “What do you say, Maurice?”
“If my father will come,” replied he. “I should not like to leave him for the whole evening; and he talked of wanting to visit those cottages by the tree.”
Hilary said she would go and see; and rising, left the room.
“Poor dear girl!” said Maurice, looking after her; “do you know what it is to leave such dear ones, Charles?—I could cry just now with pleasure.”
“Your sister will miss you immensely,” replied Mr. Huyton; “but she has so uncommon a degree of self-control and firmness of character, that I have no doubt but she will bear up under it with vigor.”
“Hilary is not the least like any other girl I ever saw,” replied Maurice, thoughtfully, “and I have seen a good many, one way
or another; she is just a hundred times better than any one I ever came across; you might live with her ten years, and never know her do a selfish or an unkind thing. I really do not believe she ever thinks of herself.”