Some one, at length, remarked that Mr. Wynne had not been seen for the last day or two. Arthur Seaham observed, in reply, that he had been expecting a visitor, with whom he had been probably occupied; and he and Carrie exchanged looks of some significance. Mary was not a partner in their secret understanding. Calmly, as was her wont, she had been returning homeward, with the happy consciousness that her presence that day had lighted up many a face with sunshine--bound up by its consolation, many a wounded heart--that she could lay her head on her pillow that night, and feel that she had to-day lived to God, and to her fellow-creatures. And truly many a tongue blessed, and many an eye turned with love and respect, as they looked upon that sweet pale face, returning slowly from her wanderings amongst them. Mary knew she was expected home to tea, but having turned a wistful eye towards her favourite hill, now all red and glowing in the early sunset, finally began the ascent; and once more we see her seated on that cool, quiet spot, her eye fixed on the same fair scene she had viewed with such fond, but hopeful regret, on the evening of her last departure from her mountain-home. And, oh! it was on such occasions, when hours of languid ease returned like this she now enjoyed, that Mary felt the urgent necessity of bracing up her mind and nerves by a course of healthy action, by carrying out into practice the lesson which the great trial of her early youth had taught her--"Patience, abnegation of self, and devotion to others." For then would she feel stealing over her senses the spirit of those days, when she had walked the earth overshadowed by a dream. Yes, the spirit of her dream had changed since last we followed Mary Seaham to this charmed spot!--the shadows of hopes at that time vaguely cherished in her breast, soon, to her sorrow, so wonderfully realized, had passed away for ever, as their idol object had been torn from its shrine. And now this purer, nobler image, reared upon the crumbled image of the former, engendered by no ideal dreams--no morbid fantasy, but which, by the force of its own glorious strength and beauty, had won its victory over her soul--must this be also doomed to perish--to fade away into a haunting shadow of the past? Yes, Eustace Trevor must be to her as one dead--not absent!--the dream be dissipated, for the hope was vain on which it was founded: vain--and incompatible with the pure, calm hope it was now the desire of her heart to aspire.