From the deep grief into which the death of her brother, to whom she was fondly attached, had plunged the mind of Eveline, she was aroused by a sudden suspicion of the defection of her lover. There was a change, not to be mistaken, in his manner, and his visits were far less frequent. Pride, native independence, and a feeling of indignation, all arose, and lent their aid to sustain her; but, actively as they exerted their influence, they were not effective in calming the wild pulsations of a wounded heart; for Eveline truly loved the faithless Pascal. At last, and before any suspicion of the real cause of his estrangement had come to the maiden’s mind, the lover ceased to visit her altogether. Nearly a month had elapsed since he had called to see Eveline, and she was in a state of tremulous doubt and anxiety. She had been out on a short visit to a friend--the first time she had been in the street for a week--when, in returning home, her eyes suddenly fell upon Pascal a short distance in advance of her. He was approaching. The heart of Eveline gave a sudden strong bound, and then fluttered in her bosom. At the instant she saw the young man, his eyes met hers. She continued to look at him as they drew near, but his eyes turned from her face, and fixed themselves upon some object beyond. He passed without noticing her. Eveline felt, for a few moments, as if she would suffocate. It required her utmost efforts and presence of mind to keep from losing command of herself in the street. She had walked on a few squares farther, when the face of a young lady friend, to whom she was much attached, presented itself among the passengers on the side-walk. Eveline paused, and was about speaking, when the young lady nodded coldly and passed on. Another friend whom she met, appeared under restraint as she exchanged greetings with her, and then, after a few brief inquiries as to how she was and had been, moved away. Not less surprised than pained was Eveline at these unlooked-for marks of estrangement in old friends. On arriving at home, she ran up into her chamber, and, after closing the door and laying off her bonnet, threw herself upon a bed and gave way to a violent burst of grief. In the midst of this wild excitement of feeling, Eunice came in, and, seeing the agitation of her sister, inquired, with much concern, the cause. A more passionate gush of tears was the only answer she received. After the mind of Eveline had, in a measure, grown calm, she said, in reply to the affectionate inquiries of Eunice, “I met Henry in the street, and he did not speak to me.” “He could not have seen you, sister,” replied Eunice, in an earnest voice; “I am sure he could not.”