"She is indeed," Mary answered with alacrity, "I wish you could know her Eugene. Is it not possible?" Then remembering the circumstances of their meeting she hesitated, and paused dejectedly. "It seems so strange and unnatural to me," she added, "that none of those I love so well should have ever seen or known you--none but Arthur," she added in a low tone. There was nothing very agreeable associated in Eugene Trevor's mind at this moment, with the later circumstances of that acquaintance, though he hastened to express slightly his own corresponding regret; however the truth was, as may be imagined, that he felt little inclination at this juncture for an encounter with any of his betrothed's belongings, more especially the dry Scotch lawyer--imagination pictured to him. If, indeed, it had not been for the nurse and children, he would probably have suggested that Mary should keep silence on the subject of their interview; but as it was, he could only resign the affair into her hands, and rely upon her representation of the circumstance. He must now think of beating a retreat; but first of all he asked her how long she was to remain in her present abode. She scarcely knew--probably all the winter. "And am I never to hear from you, or of you, all this time?" he demanded. She shook her head sadly. "I do not know Eugene how--your agreement was you remember, that we should not meet, or even write, to one another." "Do you and Olivia correspond?" Eugene then asked. "Seldom: Olivia lately has been a very bad correspondent." "No wonder; she has had other things to think of lately. She has been going on at a fine rate this season in London, nearly driven Louis mad. At last he took the children down to Silverton, and left her behind." "Poor dear Louis!" murmured Mary, with sorrowful concern. "Yes, Mary, you and I would have been very different." At those words, into which were thrown a most thrilling amount of tenderness, both of look and accent, Eugene paused. They had hitherto been pacing slowly up and down a certain part of the retired grounds, but now pressing his companion's arm close to his heart, he said in an agitated voice. "And now, Mary, how shall I ever make up my mind to leave you; and how shall I exist without you?" Mary had just lifted up her pale face with a look of piteous sorrow, at words which she felt at once were preliminaries to the bitter parting, when their attention was attracted by the voices of her sister's children, announcing them to have advanced in closer proximity than the discreet tact of their attendant had previously permitted. But on glancing in that direction, Eugene was not a little disconcerted to behold slowly advancing amongst the young group, a lady whom it needed not Mary's murmured explanation to denote to him at once as her sister.