"Dear Arthur," she said, with a melancholy attempt at a smile, "I am as well as one in my position can be, for look," she added hurriedly, "I have done your bidding," and she took up one of the letters and placed it in Arthur's hand. The brother started as he read the direction, then looked up anxiously into his sister's face. "Mary, have you really done it?" She bowed her head. "And you are finally free of the engagement?" "I am." "And you do not repent of what you have done?" "No." "And you do not find it very painful?" A wan smile was the answer. "Dear Mary!" the brother exclaimed, turning away to hide a bright drop that started to his eye, "how shall we ever be able to repay you for all you have suffered so long and patiently?" A smile again played upon her lips, as she marked the _we_ for the first time used in a speech of this nature, and putting her hand in her brother's, she replied: "By allowing me to witness your happiness, dear Arthur." Too much occupied with unselfish concern for his sister, the young man did not understand the speech as it was intended; but after a moment's anxious consideration, inquired: "Mary, has anything occurred since our conversation the day before yesterday, to hasten this step? I know that Trevor went away early this morning, but had you any meeting with him yesterday?" "I had," she answered, colouring deeply; "but, Arthur," in a faltering voice, "spare me any further questions; let what I have done suffice." "Selfish--heartless--double-hearted," were the emphatic murmurings of the young man's lips, as he turned away with dark and moody brow, "would that _I_ might ask a few questions of him." "Arthur!" Mary exclaimed, laying her hands reproachfully on his shoulder, "you will make me believe that after all you are vexed and disturbed that our engagement is over." "No, Mary, Heaven knows that is not the case; but still, it makes my blood boil to think how you have waited so long and faithfully, and that after all your trust and patience will have been all in vain, that your precious affection should have been wasted." "Then, Arthur, console yourself with the assurance that I grudge no measure of faith and patience I may have exerted. Faith and patience can never be in vain; would that was all I have now to mourn over. As for wasted affection--affection never can be wasted," unconsciously quoting the words once sounded in her ear, in tones which ever since had lingered there. "My affection, though blind, perhaps, and mistaken, was pure and innocent. God will not suffer it to return fruitless to my bosom." * * * * * Arthur Seaham was obliged to go and prepare himself for the judge's dinner, and Mary to exert herself during her _tête-à-tête_ evening with Miss Elliott.