Eugene was not content with this beginning: he and Dick were hastening down to the Port, intent upon purchasing a ruined mansion, in which swarmed a dozen Irish families. There was no great difficulty in the way, and the estate was at once secured. Half of one night during the preceding week had been spent in perfecting a plan for the model house, and our practical philanthropist was impatient to have the building in progress. The parties next went to the office of Squire Perkins to have the deeds drawn. “There is a strange story circulating through the place this morning, Mr. Hungerford,” said the squire, after he had satisfactorily ridiculed the fancy of his former student for purchasing Irish shanties. “There are always strange stories circulating,” replied Eugene, indifferently, for he was too intent upon the business before him to be moved by the reports of the village gossips. “They say that Mr. Buckstone, the artist, left town rather suddenly this forenoon,” continued the squire. “Indeed? Where has he gone?” “Nobody knows. They say Captain Kingman’s oldest daughter has gone with him.” “Mary?” gasped Eugene, starting back with horror. “So they say.” “So they say! Who says so?” demanded Eugene, fiercely. “Well, perhaps twenty people saw them go. Why, what’s the matter, Mr. Hungerford?” “Nothing, nothing,” replied he, struggling to recover his self-possession. “Is that a fact?” “I didn’t see them go; but that’s what they all say, and I suppose there can be no doubt of it.” Eugene felt giddy and sick. The story was too terrible and revolting for him to believe, and while he struggled with the tumultuous emotions that rolled up from his heart, he refused to credit it. “They say this Buckstone isn’t any better than he ought to be,” proceeded the matter-of-fact squire, opening the old deed by which he was to draw the new one. “There was a gentleman from New York up here last week who said he was a notorious rascal. I think he said Buckstone ran away with another man’s wife, and there was----” “My God!” groaned Eugene, rushing madly out of the office, followed by Dick Birch. “What’s the matter with him?” demanded the honest squire, with no little perturbation, as he jumped out of his chair; and he had not a suspicion that he was rending the very soul of Eugene by his words. “He seemed to be struck up all in a heap,” replied the late owner of the Milesian hovel. “Bless me! now I think of it, Hungerford was rather fond of that Kingman girl. I’m sorry,” continued the squire, rubbing his bald head vigorously. “She was a nice girl, and it’s a pity any harm should come to her;” and sadly worried by the shock he had given the young man, he turned again to the deed. CHAPTER VII. POOR MARY! “Don’t be disturbed, Hungerford; it is nothing but an idle story,” said Dick Birch, taking the arm of his friend as he joined him in the street. “Dick, I shall go mad!” exclaimed Eugene; and a cold shudder ran through his frame.