Why are we ever inclined to choose the evil and reject the good? Why do we ever love darkness better than light? Why are our eyes blinded, our imagination diseased, our taste perverted, and our heart deceived? But not now did Mary meditate upon this mystery, she only meekly and tearfully exclaimed against any such imputation. "Why I love you, Eugene? alas! I begin almost to think you never loved me, or you would not surely distress me by such words and expressions. Mr. Temple--" "Mary, do not speak that hated name again." "I will not; too gladly will I avoid a subject which makes you so unlike yourself, but remember, Eugene, it was you who first began it, for it is one I should never have resumed. Mr. Temple," she repeated more firmly, "however I may honour his memory, is as one henceforth dead to me; he has for some time left the country, and it is not probable that I shall ever see him again in this world." "So be it!" again murmured Eugene through his closed teeth, but added, perceiving probably as his heated spirit cooled, that his violence on this subject was making too much impression on his companion. "I have indeed perhaps been exciting myself to an unreasonable extent, but I do not know how it is, there was always something from the first, that from what you told me of this Mr. Temple gave me a disagreeable impression, something about him which seemed mysterious, underhand and suspicious." Mary's voice was about to be raised in indignant refutation of a charge so unfounded, but cautious prudence checked the ebullition which might only have led to fresh irritation on Eugene's part, but, as bright as noontide, open as the day, there flashed before her memory those clear dark eyes, the glance, the countenance of that aspersed one, it must have been a dangerous crisis, for him who had spoken the injurious idea, with such sidelong glance and downcast averted countenance. Mary's forbearance seemed nevertheless to have restored her companion's equanimity. He was in a moment all affectionate contrition, and Mary all forgiving kindness--still more gratifying Eugene's _exigence_ by comparing the unbroken monotony of her present existence with his own exciting career; and telling him how much more there was, therefore, on her side to call forth misgivings on his account, yet how her perfect trust, her entire faith sustained her. "I am as happy indeed," she continued calmly, "as I can be under present circumstances. I might have preferred perhaps being with my dear brother, but my friends thought that would not quite do at present." Eugene's brow darkened. He had no great fancy just now for that "dear brother." "Yes--yes," he said somewhat hastily, "I quite agree with them, you are certainly better where you are, just now; he is too young, and your sister no doubt is, as you say, a delightful person."