And Ashton did come daily, and although his conversation was chiefly devoted to Mrs. Seacourt, he neither seemed to seek nor to avoid his cousin. Now and then he found himself deep in a conversation with her, and he thought of old times. But the memory of their last interview came across him at such moments like a blight. “How wonderfully Ashton has improved since his travels,” said Mrs. Seacourt one morning, as she and Mary sat _tête-à-tête_, sewing; “and do you know,” continued she, looking archly at her companion, “that I deem myself indebted to you for his charming visits.” Mary felt the blood mounting to her brow, and she stooped to pick out a stitch. “Oh! you are always jesting, Anne; you know it is not so.” “We shall see. I prophesy that this afternoon, when we go to the exhibition, he will escort you, and leave Miss Thornbury to Seacourt’s nephew.” Mary’s heart beat so she could scarcely answer, but she managed to reply, “Don’t, my dear Mrs. Seacourt, don’t tease one this way. You know, indeed you know, Ashton cares nothing for me,” and she felt how great a relief would have been a flood of tears, could she have indulged in them. Mrs. Seacourt smiled archly, and said no more. The afternoon came. The little company were assembled in the drawing-room. Ashton entered just as the last moment had come, and when the ladies were rising to go. Mary was almost hidden in one corner, so fearful was she of attracting the raillery of Mrs. Seacourt, by placing herself near the entrance, and in Ashton’s way. Her very sensitiveness produced the effect she wished to avoid. The gentlemen naturally sought partners nearest them, and for a moment she was left almost alone. She thought she would have fainted when she saw her cousin cross the room and offer to be her escort. They proceeded to the exhibition. For the first time for years, Ashton’s arm upheld that of Mary. At first both were embarrassed; but each made an effort, and they soon glided into conversation on indifferent subjects. What a relief it was to Mary that night, to think she had been alone, as it were, with her cousin without being treated with neglect. From that day the visits of Ashton to Mrs. Seacourt’s increased in frequency, yet there was nothing marked in his attentions to Mary. Indeed, he still continued to converse chiefly with his friend’s wife, though he did not openly avoid her guest. Mary grew more and more tremblingly alive to his presence, and at times, when she would detect his eye bent on her, half sadly, half abstractedly, her heart would flutter wildly, and a delicious hope would momently shoot across her mind; but soon to fade as quickly. One morning, Ashton entered the drawing-room, and found her alone. She was untangling a skein of silk. She arose, and said, with some embarrassment, “Mrs. Seacourt is up stairs; I will ring for her.” “Not for the world, if she is in any way engaged. I can await her pleasure.”