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.
“My aunt and cousin have nothing to do with these; the gardener raised them on purpose for you and your sisters, I know; I can claim no merit, except that of willingly bringing them; do take them, and put them in pots in the drawing-room; and let them speak of comfort.”