"Yes, I know," but in a quick suspicious tone, "why did you sigh when you repeated that man's name?" "Did I sigh?" "To be sure, you did; Mary, pray do not let me imagine that you repent--that for a moment you have ever regretted you refused that--man, the idea would distract me." "Eugene, Eugene! you are very strange to-day," replied the astonished girl, "how is it possible that I could have regretted it, when so soon after I met you--and now--" Her soft glance finished the sentence, and seemed to express that now such an idea would indeed be madness. Eugene pressed her arm grateful for this soothing assurance, but still seemed not perfectly satisfied. "And supposing even that you had _not_ met with me so soon after," he persisted, "you never _would_ have regretted this act of yours? Mary, you do not answer. Is it possible," turning almost fiercely towards her, "that on second thoughts, on mature consideration, you ever could have consented to marry that man?" Mary's spirit, like that of many persons of her gentle disposition, could be roused by any such unjust or unreasonable display of temper, and she answered calmly: "Most people would have wondered how it were possible, I refrained from loving that excellent, that delightful man, who for four long years I had daily seen in the exercise of every good and beneficial work, and of whose amiable and exalted character, I had such full opportunity of judging. It must indeed have been one of the inscrutable ways of Providence, which preserved my heart all whole and entire for you, Eugene." But the affectionate glance she lifted up towards her lover, was met by one so dark and sinister in its expression, that she started and shrank, as at the same moment, with an impetuous, almost violent movement, her arm was released by her companion. "This is too much," he muttered angrily, "if I am to stay here only to have rang in my ear the praises of this Temple, as he calls himself, I think it is time that I should be off." Poor Mary, after one moment's astounded silence, placed her gentle hand tremulously on his arm. "Eugene!" she faltered, "do not I entreat you look or speak like that, you distress, you terrify me, and really this anger on your part is so unaccountable, so uncalled for, I cannot understand it." "Not understand it, Mary? Not understand why I should hate to hear you eulogize and wonder at your not having been inclined to marry that detested man? Why I shall next be hearing you wondering what ever made you love me." Incautious suggestion--why indeed had she loved him? What if Mary, in after hours, when thinking over this scene, should recall that question for cooler discussion, and diving into the recesses of her reasonable soul for its solution, bring forth no more definite response than the reiteration of the question. Why indeed?