too strongly moved for ceremony, and the soft, kind tone went to her heart like the words of a friend.
“Oh, my father! my father!” she sobbed, “all hope is gone; he is, he must be—” then her voice was choked again in an agony of tears.
“M. de la Récaille gives no hope, then?” said he, very gently; “I am indeed grieved.”
“Ah, if it had been to me,” exclaimed Hilary, “I think I could have borne it better; but for my father, dear, dear father, that he should be helpless, dependent, dark—he who has such intense pleasure in beauty, who has been so active, so busy all his life—that he should be reduced to the state—oh, for submission, resignation, faith like his!”
“Is he much disappointed at the result?” inquired Mr. Paine.
“No, oh, no; he never hoped at all; and he is so good, so trustful!”
“Dear Miss Duncan,” said Mr. Paine, drawing a chair close beside hers, “short as our acquaintance has been, it is impossible for me not to be interested in your father and family; and the future connection between us, the claim which I hope to have as your pastor, when I come to assist Mr. Duncan in his duties here, makes me feel that I have a right to speak to you. Will you let me address you as a friend, or shall I be intruding unpleasantly on a sorrow I would gladly assuage or mitigate?”
Hilary raised her head, and wiping away her tears, she said, with a sort of watery smile,
“Be our friend, Mr. Paine, and speak; I deserve reproof for my rebellion to the will of heaven!”
“I would rather give you comfort than reproof, Miss Duncan; and painful as the certainty you have just acquired must be, natural as grief is under such feelings, I think there is comfort to be found even here. The entire and beautiful resignation of your father shows so clearly that he has that blessed light within which is alone the source of true happiness, that I think you may repose in perfect confidence on this dispensation proving a blessing, not a scourge to him. ‘He that formed the eye, shall