As Mary passed along the entry, she saw Mr. Birch through the open, front door, on a little eminence before the house, apparently enjoying the view of the ocean and the surrounding scenery. I have no doubt he was enjoying it, for he had a keen relish for the beauties of nature; but at the same time, I cannot help thinking that his presence on the knoll at that moment was a piece of strategy--a commonplace contrivance to enable Eugene to see the lady alone for a brief period. Mary went into the parlor, where she had left the two gentlemen. Eugene sat in the rocking-chair, as cool, dignified, and self-possessed as though he had not been under the same roof with the lady whom he professed to love well enough to make her Mrs. Hungerford. A slight flush mantled her cheek as she realized that she was alone with him. “Has your friend so soon tired of our palace on the island?” said she. “O, no; I was telling him what a fine view was to be obtained from that knoll, and he could not postpone the enjoyment of it.” “Of course you will stay to dinner with us, though we can give you only fisherman’s fare.” “No, I think not. We have our dinner on board the boat, and we shall partake of it on the Ledge. We had no intention of trespassing upon your hospitality to that extent. As Mr. Birch wished to see the island, I thought we might as well walk up while we were at the landing.” That was all--was it? He had not walked up to the house for the sake of being in her presence a few moments longer. He did not look at her; he did not smile like one whose heart yearned towards her. There was little, if any, of the tenderness in his manner which the impressible artist exhibited even after an acquaintance of a few hours. Mary was sad at heart, and her smile was a struggle with her disappointment. Yet Eugene did smile upon her; his heart did yearn towards her, and gladly would he have told her his thought, and revealed to her his soul; but Dick Birch’s prophecy was having a literal fulfilment. The three millions rested upon his heart like an incubus, not closing, but turning aside the channels of his affection; not drying up, but rolling back the current of his love. Eugene did try to be tender towards her, but it was an awkward and clumsy effort; it was a signal failure. He judged himself by his intention rather than by his acts, and though no sign was given, he fully believed he had taken his first step. He was waiting now for a token of encouragement: of course none could be given. Had he boldly looked his love,--had he taken her by the hand, and glanced wistfully into her face,--it would have been well with him, well with her. He knew not certainly that she loved him; to manifest his own love, decidedly and unmistakably, would be to tempt her with the three millions. He could not buy her with a price; he could not sell himself at a price.