“Forget you!” laughed she. “Of course I shall not forget you.” “Thank you.” “How strange you are!” A new phase in Dick’s character seemed now to present itself, and she blushed slightly in spite of herself. His words were strange; his look was stranger. Perhaps before she had gone many miles, the look and the words were more intelligible. The train bore the family away from Poppleton, and it was nine months before they saw it again. We do not purpose to follow the party across the ocean, and in their wanderings through Europe. They went the grand rounds, and beneath Italy’s sunny skies Eugene did think of all his friends at home, and especially of Mary, though not as he had intended when his unwitting coldness banished hope from her heart. Every steamer bore a letter to him from Dick Birch, and one which reached him in May, just before he sailed for home, enclosed another from Ross Kingman. Eugene, with trembling eagerness, tore open the envelope of the latter, for he knew to whom it alluded, and he had impatiently longed for some intelligence of Mary for months; not that it could give him even a ray of hope, but it might assure him that she was happy, and had not come to harm. Ross Kingman’s letter contained a brief note from Mary to himself, with a few lines which he had evidently penned in great haste, and under the most intense excitement. Mary’s letter, brief as it was, filled Eugene with grief and indignation. It gave him a shock more terrible than any he had yet received, and only confirmed the fears which had so long haunted him. Mary’s note was as follows:-- NEW YORK, April 20, 1856 DEAR BROTHER: Three days ago I became a mother, but my poor baby died yesterday, and to-day they bore it from me. I have not seen my husband for four weeks. I fear he has deserted me. He has neglected me for some months. I reproached him for it; he was very angry,--he had been drinking too much,--and told me that _I was not his wife_. O Ross, I could have borne everything but that! He has left me no money, and the people where I board look very coldly upon me. Could you come to me, Ross? Your affectionate sister, MARY K. BUCKSTONE. Ross Kingman’s letter breathed nothing but vengeance, dire and terrible, upon the man who had wronged his sister. He was about to take the train for New York. Eugene was paralyzed by the intelligence contained in these letters. Poor Mary! How terribly was she suffering for his indecision! He could take no other view, and his anguish was pitiable. He gave the letters to his mother, but even she had no power to console him.