She makes a quick forward movement of surprise; but when Eugene looked inquiringly, as if to discern the cause of her apparent interest, the momentary excitement died away, and she answered with melancholy composure: "It was only that I saw Mr. Temple pass--he of whom, you know, I told you once." "What--who--Eus--Temple I mean, did you say? Are you certain--quite certain?" he exclaimed, with anxious, eager excitement, far surpassing any which the recognition had excited in her own breast; "are you sure--quite sure that it was he?" "Yes" with a sigh; "I do not think I could be mistaken, for he looked so earnestly into the carriage; but why--why, Eugene," looking at her lover with a faint, melancholy smile, and some expression of surprise, "why should it thus excite you?" "My own dear love," Eugene now said, regaining possession of her hand, and trying also to assume a forced smile, as well as tone of careless unconcern, "I was not particularly excited, but you know I cannot help feeling a slight degree of interest in that man after what you told me. And did he see us? you, dearest, I mean?" he continued, still with a degree of anxious solicitude in his tone. "Yes, I think, I am almost sure, he did," she wearily replied, and then her exhausted feelings sunk her again into a state of hopeless, listless dejection. And Eugene sat too, for a few minutes, plunged in anxious, thoughtful silence, from which he was aroused by a glance towards the windows, reminding him that they were approaching closely to Mary's destination. Immediately, with an exclamation of despair, he pulls the check-string and the carriage stops; the servant is at the door. There was but a bewildered hasty parting. Trevor springs out into the street, turns upon Mary one expressive, eager glance, and he is gone! The carriage proceeds a little way, and then rolls within the Temple gates, and Mary is found by her brother, when he comes hurrying down to meet her, pale, trembling, nearly hysterical, from the effects of all her nerves and feelings had undergone. CHAPTER VI. Me, the still "London" not the restless "Town" (The light plume fluttering o'er Cybele's crown,) Delights;--for there the grave romance hath shed Its hues, and air grows solemn with the dead. THE NEW TIMON. Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time. LONGFELLOW. What was the matter?--what had happened?--was Arthur Seaham's anxious inquiry, when having for greater privacy entered the carriage, he had sat a few minutes by Mary's side, tenderly and soothingly holding her hand--till the first paroxysm of emotion, (which to his astonishment and dismay, greeted his first appearance) was in a degree subsided.