parted lips and fixed eye, and hands half raised, as if hesitating whether to speak, or to retire.
“Dora, dear Dora!” said Hilary, holding out her hands. In another moment Dora was in her arms, hiding her face upon her shoulder, and sobbing out incoherent words of tenderness, sorrow, and self-reproach. Her friend did not speak, but caressed her softly, and waited until this ecstacy was over, well knowing, from experience, that Dora’s moods were somewhat changeable.
At length she raised her head, and with downcast eyes, and tears trembling on the lashes, she asked, in an agitated voice, “Oh, Hilary! what do you think of me?”
“That you are very kind to come and see me, dear,” replied Mrs. Hepburn, smiling gently.
“Ah, well! perhaps it is wisest to say nothing of the past, we will talk of something else. This dear old place, this happy, happy room, that beloved garden. Oh, Hilary, Hilary! my heart will break.”
“It is very painful to leave it,” replied Hilary; “it is always hard to give up scenes to which the heart clings, and I understand Mr. Ufford means to pull it all down, and build a new and larger vicarage. He can hardly make it grand enough for your sister’s habits, without making it too grand for the living.”
“I dare say not,” said Dora, abstractedly. “You have removed the pictures?” Her eye had sought for one portrait which used to hang in that room.
“Yes, most things are packed up, ready for removal: we go ourselves very soon.”
“Ah, me! ah, me! and how is—how are your sailor friends?” Her cheeks varied from red to white.
“Well, quite well.”