"I would have you show that you really loved me, by consenting to a step which might, under certain circumstances, be the only means of securing our final happiness. _My_ happiness--that is to say--and your's," he added softly. "I had hoped, dearest Mary, you would also have considered it." "My happiness, indeed, Eugene; but still deceit of any kind to me is so very repugnant, even in idea, that I scarcely know how I should ever be able to _enact_ it--deceit too of such a grave and responsible character--enacted against those dearest to me. What a return for their affectionate and anxious regard for my welfare!" "Yes," answered Eugene, somewhat hurriedly, "that tormenting point about money matters, and a few more directly touching myself. But I am unwise, perhaps, in so committing myself," he added again coldly. "Your love of _truth_, which do not fancy I cannot thoroughly appreciate, may also force you to communicate all that has now passed between us to your friends and relations." "Eugene, you are unkind," poor Mary murmured, in accents of wounded affection. He took her hand, pressing it to his lips in a manner which expressed the tenderest, humblest sorrow--and the ready tearful smile told him he was too easily forgiven. "What sort of a man is this brother-in-law of yours, Mary?" Eugene then asked. "A very kind good man," Mary answered. "I am sure, _I_ ought to say so." "And your sister?" "She is my sister, and therefore when I tell you that she is in my eyes perfection, you will indeed think me partial." "And you are then altogether perfectly happy," with renewed pique. This time she only answered him with a glance, her heart too full for words. "Forgive me, dearest, if I am jealous," Eugene exclaimed, again appeased, "of every one, even your own sister; but I shall be thankful indeed to have no further excuse for the indulgence of that feeling. Oh! Mary, I have often cruel misgivings respecting you." "Respecting _me_, Eugene?" "Yes, lest by any means you should during our separation be induced to love, nay, even the idea that you should be _loved_ by any one save myself, is almost to me as repugnant." "What can you mean, Eugene?" turning her eyes upon him, with doubting surprise; "_I_ love any one, you cannot be in earnest--as to any one loving me." "Well, do you think that so very much out of the question--Mr. Temple for instance?" These last words were spoken in a faltering, agitated voice, the speaker's countenance undergoing a strange, a most unpleasing change, whilst an ashy paleness spread over it, his eyes, in which glared a sinister expression, fixed upon the clear open countenance of Mary, who that moment was pensively looking down, or indeed she might well have been startled at the new light which shone from her lover's face. "Mr. Temple!" she repeated slowly, and sadly "ah, yes!" with a thoughtful sigh, "but surely, Eugene, I satisfied you fully on that point, when I told you I refused him."