She felt quite sure as she glanced around, when Mrs. de Burgh closed the door behind her, that the _tête-à-tête_ of Olivia and her friend would not be intruded upon by her to-night, that for the hour or two before bed-time she should be well able to wile away her moments more agreeably; and when in accordance with Mrs. de Burgh's anticipations, she listened to the retreating voices of Louis and his companion, as issuing from the dining-room they proceeded to the library, and shut the door upon them to pore, for the remainder of the evening, over books and plans--for Mr. L---- had to leave early on the following morning--Mary obediently followed Mrs. de Burgh's injunction, "to make herself comfortable," by sinking back on a luxurious _bergère_ on one side of the fire place, and returning to the perusal of a work she had commenced that day--whether for the name's-sake we cannot tell--but when my readers learn its title, they will scarcely wonder if she now proceeded with almost as much absorbing and abstract interest as if in Madeline's own words there had been "no more Eugene's in the world than one"--the strange and mysterious hero of her romantic studies. The book she read was Eugene Aram. Thus engaged, Mary's attention wholly rivetted by the stirring interest of the story, her taste enchanted by the glowing descriptions; and more than all, her feelings and sympathies affected by the striking sentiments of force and pathos with which its pages abound. She must have become insensible to the existence of common worldly sounds, for that of the door bell at this unusual hour, made no more impression on her senses than any other might have done. Reclining back in indolent repose, one hand supporting the book, whilst her other fair girlish arm lay in listless abandonment across the arm of the chair, she just heard the door of the apartment open, but never troubled herself to turn her head to look upon the intruder, concluding that it could be only the servant come to attend to the fire, and not till he had crossed the room and stood close before her, did she raise her eyes to behold Eugene Trevor. Yes, there he was, standing looking down upon her with a smile on his lips, provoked, first by the extreme absorption in which he had surprised her, and then by the gaze of startled wonder, her upraised countenance expressed. But astonishment soon gave way to other appearances. If Eugene Trevor had ever reason to doubt the true impression made by him on Mary Seaham's heart--by this sudden and unexpected arrival after an interval of absence such as had occurred, and from causes such as had existed--he had now taken good means to ascertain its real nature and extent. Nothing speaks so truly as to the character and durability of the feelings we have awakened, than the effect produced by meetings of this sort. "Le plus aimé n'est pas toujours le meilleur reçu,"