Dr. Bilks came upon his morning professional visit--all his visits were regarded as professional. Julia endeavored to persuade her friend to accompany her to the drawing-room, but Mary could not be prevailed upon even to encounter the earnest gaze of Eugene, after the offer he had made. She had never walked in the Pine Hill grounds--had seen them only from the window. While the family were in the drawing-room, she would have an opportunity to walk an hour, and explore the premises. She went out at the side door, so that her exit could not be observed, and perambulated the grounds down to the river, admired the fine taste displayed, and enjoyed the cool breeze which fanned her cheek, as she sat in the elevated summer-house. On her return, when the hour had nearly expired, to her great annoyance she discovered Eugene approaching. Hoping he had not seen her, she stepped into an arbor concealed in a group of pines. “Why do you shun me, Mary?” said Eugene, as he presented himself before her. He had seen her; he had come out to find her, when he learned that she was not in the house. “After what you said to me yesterday, it is better that I should avoid you, Mr. Hungerford,” she replied, hardly able to speak, so violent was the emotion that agitated her. “Have I become offensive to you?” “You know it is not that.” “Why should you avoid me? Mary, I have not ceased to love you since we went to school together.” “Do not speak of those things, Mr. Hungerford.” “Mary, I love you! It is treason to my own heart to be silent.” “Let me go, now.” “Go, if you will, Mary; but I shall love you the same.” She looked up into his face. It was more eloquent than his words. The expression of love which lighted up his noble countenance seemed to chain her to the spot. Her will was to go, but she could not. In his presence she was powerless. “Did you ever love me, Mary?” he asked. “I must not answer.” “You did; if it were not so, you would answer me.” “I did love you, Mr. Hungerford; but that was when we were children.” “Have you ceased to love me?” “I was the wife of another--I believed I was--I had no right then to think of you.” “Did you love your husband?” he asked, solemnly. “If I answer you, it is only to excuse my own rashness and folly. If I did not love him when we were married, I knew that his devotion would soon conquer what was in my heart.” “What?” “I did love you--once; I will not deny it. When I stood on the shore without a friend in the world, I yielded to the importunity of Mr. Buckstone. I could not have done so, if I had not been so poor and helpless; if I had had even my father’s poor roof to cover me. You know it all, Mr. Hungerford.” “I knew it all before. I surmised it all--I believed it all. If you loved me, Mary, why did you accept him?” “I endeavored to banish the feeling from my heart; I thought I had done so.” “Why did you try to banish it?” “Because it was hopeless.” “Was it hopeless?”