“It is certainly rare to see one so young so thoughtful and womanly in her mind,” said Charles Huyton, earnestly. “I think you told me she is not yet eighteen?”
“Oh! no, only just turned seventeen; most girls are mere children at her age. To see how she teaches and manages the little ones, and cares for my father, and attends to all the old women and babies in the parish, knowing exactly who wants a flannel petticoat, or a pig, or a dose of rhubarb: it is really something wonderful! I do not believe she ever forgets any thing from one Sunday to another!”
“Except herself,” replied the visitor.
“Ay, except herself, in the right sense. I say, Charles, though, I have seen many girls forget themselves when I could have wished them a little more memory, for their own sakes; and you never see Hilary do that.”
“Never—I wonder you can make up your mind to leave your family,” observed Charles Huyton, with the utter unconsciousness of the laws of necessity which young men of large fortunes, independent of guardians, sometimes feel.
“What would you have?” said Maurice. “I must work, and, indeed, I love my profession; and but for these leave-takings, have nothing to complain of. If I am only lucky enough to get promoted by-and-by, when I am older, Hilary and I will settle down together in some little cottage on the sea-shore, and live on my half-pay and her fortune together, and be a regular old cozy brother and sister. That’s my notion of happiness. I don’t think either Hilary or I shall ever want to marry!”
“Don’t you?” observed his friend, with a somewhat incredulous smile.
“I only hope she will not over-work herself; she is too anxious about every thing; and with nobody to help her, the
three children come heavily upon her. Charles, you will come and see them sometimes when I am gone?”
“Sometimes!” replied Mr. Huyton, quietly.