All of them, of course! Eugene had a large heart, and it could include within its embrace all Poppleton, not excepting the four thousand of the perishing classes, who were to be blessed by his bounty. Mary was hardly satisfied with the cold, studied, embarrassed termination of Eugene’s rapturous speech. One moment he made her heart glow, and the next he chilled it. It is impossible to say what point he might have reached, if Mr. Buckstone, now thoroughly dried and comfortable, had not entered the room and disturbed the unsatisfactory conference. Mary could hardly be said to be in love, though the phase she had reached is usually interpreted as being in love. She was enduring the miseries of that incipient affection from which the slightest token of love on the part of Eugene would have plunged her into irretrievable depths. That token had not been given; it had been studiously withheld. His words were carefully guarded, apparently with the intention of preventing her from misunderstanding his purpose. He spoke as a friend, not as a lover; he labored to make it plain to her that he was only a friend. He insisted upon friendship; he had half a dozen times elaborately repudiated the very idea of love. The spark that was wanting to kindle in the heart the flame of genuine affection was not communicated to the waiting altar. Mary Kingman was not lacking in decision. The little curl of her under lip did not speak falsely of her character. Gladly, joyously, triumphantly, as she would have thrown herself into the arms of Eugene Hungerford, and permitted her heart to grow into and intwine itself upon him, he was a mountain of ice to her. She felt that he had closed his heart against her. He could be a good and true friend, but nothing more. With a desponding spirit she turned from him, and the firmness of her character enabled her to banish, once and for all, the pleasing illusion from her mind. Not all, not many, could have done so; Mary did, and Mr. Eliot Buckstone, with his new-born, but enthusiastic admiration, became tolerable to her. “I hope I don’t intrude,” said the artist, significantly, as he entered the room. “Not in the least, Mr. Buckstone,” replied Eugene, lightly, as though the great event of his lifetime had not been pending during the interview; and the very cheerfulness of his tones was full confirmation to Mary that no thought deeper than friendship had crossed his mind. “How do you feel after your bath?” “Very nicely, thank you.” “Well, Mary, my friend must have exhausted the island by this time, and we will continue our voyage,” added Eugene, taking his hat, and moving towards the door. “Dinner’s all ready, Mr. Hungerford,” interposed Mrs. Kinsman, coming out of the kitchen on the other side of the entry. “We hain’t got much, but you’re welcome to’t such as ’tis.” “Thank you, Mrs. Kingman; I think we will not remain. We engaged to dine on the Ledge.”