Her sun had set. Henceforth she must be content to be shunned and despised. Her husband had deserted her, leaving her not even an honest name before the world. She had been indiscreet, but she had not been guilty, and God would forgive her, if man would not. Then, as many a time before since sorrow darkened densely upon her, she would have welcomed the angel of death as her best and truest friend. The night shadows gathered over the face of nature, while she gazed from the window, as they gathered over her troubled heart. The clock struck nine, but Ross did not return. She wished to see him before she retired, for she was anxious to know what Eugene said of her; whether he condemned and scorned her, as she was assured all the rest of the world condemned and scorned her. It was a very mild and soft night for May on the sea shore, and she still sat at her open window. She shrank not from the night air, which might be laden with disease and death, for life was no longer sweet to her, and she dreaded not the grim messenger who must sooner or later summon her from the misery to which she seemed to be doomed. She heard footsteps in the path which led from the landing-place round to the front of the house. She listened and looked, believing it was Ross; but the person, whose form she could now indistinctly see in the darkness, did not move like her brother. He came beneath her window, and stopped there. “Mary.” She was startled by the voice. It was not that of Ross, but the tones were familiar. “Mary,” repeated the speaker. “Who is there?” she asked, quivering with emotion in every fibre of her frame. “It is I, Mary. May I see you?” It was Eliot Buckstone. She had many doubts whether to see him or not, but her first thought was, that he who had called himself her husband, who was the father of her dead child, was in mortal peril. “Come up stairs,” said she, intent only upon warning him from the spot. He entered at the front door, and was familiar enough with the house to find his way up stairs. Mary conducted him from the entry to her room without speaking a word, though her heart was almost bursting with agitation. “Can you forgive me, Mary?” said he, as he closed the door behind him. “Can you forgive yourself?” asked she, in tremulous tones. “No, Mary, I cannot! I have sinned against Heaven and you, and I am no more worthy of you,” continued Eliot, with apparent or real emotion. “How could you desert me at such a time?” “I did not mean to desert you. I knew not what I did; but how bitterly have I repented!” “Have you repented?” “O, Mary! If you knew what I have suffered! If you could have seen my tears! If you could have felt the throbs of my breaking heart!” “You told me I was not your wife, Eliot. That was the most cruel of all,” sobbed she. “I was mad, Mary. I had been drinking; but I have sworn never to put the cup to my lips again, and God help me, I never will!”