Yes, darker and darker seemed to grow the picture before Mary's eyes that house and home presented, of which she had once contemplated with such innocent satisfaction and happy anticipation becoming the mistress. Sin after sin, more or less strange and terrible to her startled spirit, rose up to scare and to repel her; so much so, that to think that one to whom she had been devoted, should have amalgamated himself even in a passive character with the influence of such a foul and infected atmosphere, was horrible to her feelings, and most 'blessed' indeed in comparison--'when men shall revile you and cast you out of their company'--appeared to her the persecuted in such a case. Was it that some outward manifestation of these inward impressions revealed themselves upon her countenance, that Eugene regarded her with that keen and scrutinizing expression, as for a moment her eyes were, with a careworn abstracted look, cast downwards upon the ground. "Now, Mary, let me hear something of yourself," he suddenly exclaimed, breaking off his former topic of discourse; "what have you been doing since I saw you last?" Mary did not return the question; she did not ask "What have _you_ been doing?" but as she looked up into her lover's face, what was it that made it impossible to return the smile, the glance, with which he awaited the reply? What was it that made her turn away her eyes with a pang--almost a shudder at her heart? Alas! what new impression did she receive from looking on that face, which had been to her the beloved dream, the haunting vision of her youth. Was it come to this. Had absence changed her heart? Had it become strange, untrue, towards her early love? Did she turn her eyes away from her lover's face because his cheek was haggard, his brow sunken, and his eye lost the brightness of those days when "The sunshine of her life was in those eyes." Ah, no! she felt that this was not the case. Had she but read signs of grief, of sickness, written there, and her heart would have gone forth to soothe and sympathize with all the truth and fervour of the past. But no, it was none of these which had laid their signet there. Alas for her enlightened eyes! she felt it was not sorrow--not sickness--but sin; that no cloud had settled on his brow which she could have dared the fond attempt to pierce; and agony to think that it should have come to this; that she should be seated at his side, and feel it were not possible that she could lay her weary head upon that lover's arm, place her hand in his, with the love and confidence with which she had even yearned towards another. But this had been the vague and passing reflection of a second. With scarcely perceptible pause she had softly replied: "I have done little, Eugene, which would count for much in your varied and busy existence. The most important feature in my own consideration has been an excursion to Italy, which I took last summer with my brother."