He had spoken of love to her; he had uttered the vows and protestations of an enthusiastic admirer. He had pleaded with her, as a lover pleads, for her heart and hand; but she had made him no definite answer. Though she was not insensible to his love, though she was even deeply moved by his earnest devotion, she did not feel that she yet loved him well enough to be his wife. Eugene Hungerford, all hopeless and distant as he now was to her, could not be wholly forgotten, though she had ceased to think of him as she had thought before he so prudently proclaimed himself to be only her “friend.” Mary was in that state of terror, doubt, and agony which rendered a near and dear friend almost a necessity to her. Her sorrows were too weighty to be borne alone. Under the smile of prosperity, with no boding clouds threatening her, she might never have favored the suit of Eliot Buckstone. As it was, she was disposed to do so; and now, as she was fleeing in grief and misery from the home of her childhood, and from the wrath of him who should have been her strongest friend, he stepped into her path. Not thus, borne down by the shadow of all earth’s calamities, would she have met him; not here and now would she have listened to his impassioned eloquence, for her heart was weak with suffering, her strength was exhausted by the pressure of misery; not thus would she have heard and decided the question upon which hung all the issues of the unseen future. She was weak in body, but weaker in spirit under the accumulated trials and terrors that beset her. “You are an early bird, Mary, as well as myself,” said Mr. Buckstone, as he threw his skiff alongside her boat. She made no reply, for her sorrows choked her utterance. Without ceremony, he leaped into the boat, securing the skiff astern. “Are you going to the Port, Mary?” he asked, as he gently took the oars from her grasp, and assisted her to a seat farther aft. “Yes.” “You are up very early.” She could not speak. “What is the matter, Mary? You can tell me, you know, for I am familiar with affairs over at the house,” he continued. “Something has happened, Mary.” His gentleness, his tenderness were more than she could bear, and she bent down her head, and wept like a child. “Won’t you tell me what it is, Mary?” “I cannot, Mr. Buckstone,” she sobbed. “Don’t go to the village now. I cannot be seen as I am.” He turned the boat’s head towards the Point, and waited till the torrent of her grief had spent itself. “O, Mr. Buckstone!” exclaimed she, suddenly raising her head, and gazing earnestly at him. “What has happened, Mary? Won’t you tell me?” “I cannot stay at home any longer. I shall not dare to enter my father’s house again.” “I feared it would come to this. Where are you going?” “To Newington.” “Have you friends there?” “I shall find friends,” she answered, evasively.