She turned away, lighting her candle with unsteady hand. "Good night, Olivia," she said gravely. Mrs. de Burgh held out her hand. "Good night, Mary. I hope you will sleep well, and be better to-morrow." By a faint, cold smile, Mary alone acknowledged the kindness of the desire. She was turning silently away, but something seemed to come over her spirit--a chill--a pang--a sinking at the heart--such as those must feel who, be the circumstances what they may, have torn thus away the last link of that broken chain which once, alas! so fondly bound them. She paused, her softened glance directed towards Eugene. There was no relenting, no wavering in the glance, nothing but a mournful interest, sorrowful regret, offered up as it were, as a final tribute to the past. But it seemed not that Trevor was in a condition of mind to enter into the spirit of this silent adieu. Throwing himself back upon a chair, without appearing to notice it, and addressing himself to Mrs. de Burgh, he exclaimed in a tone of almost insolent defiance: "Olivia, I must trouble you to order me a bed also. I shall not turn out this dark night for any one." It was not so much the words, but the tone in which they were spoken, which seemed to complete the work of disenchantment. The softness passed from Mary's eyes, and her parting look, though still sorrowful, was grave and firm, whilst in a voice, low, but full of dignified reserve, she uttered the words "Good bye." Simple as was their emphasis, they were not to be mistaken. They seemed to say "Good bye, Eugene, for whether you stay to-night, or go, you and I meet not again." And then she slowly left the room. CHAPTER XVIII. Suddenly rose from the South a light, as in autumn the blood red Moon climbs the crystal walls of Heaven, and o'er the horizon, Titan-like, stretches its hundred hands upon mountains and meadow, Seizing the rocks and the rivers, and piling huge shadows together. LONGFELLOW. Why flames the far summit? why shoot to the blast, Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of Heaven. Oh crested Lochrel! the peerless in might, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling, all lonely, return, For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood. CAMPBELL. It was with a numbed and dreary sense of bruised and outraged feeling that Mary--the last fibre of mistaken partiality torn from her heart--the last atom of her false idol crumbled into dust, lay down upon her bed that night. She had lain there perhaps an hour, when the loud ringing of the hall-door aroused her from the state of dreamy stupor which was stealing over her.