“Never mind the story; it is only gossip.” “Let us get out of sight, Dick,” continued Eugene, as he convulsively clutched the arm of his friend, and dragged him down the street towards the river. “I must go down to the island and learn the truth at once.” “Keep cool, Hungerford.” “How can I keep cool in the face of such a wretched rumor?” “This is not like you.” “I shall go mad, Dick!” “No, you won’t do anything of the sort. What are you going mad for?” said Dick, rather impatiently. “Don’t mock me.” “Then don’t make a fool of yourself. You are attracting attention now by your furious pace. Slow down a little, and be reasonable.” “You can’t understand it Dick,” groaned Eugene. “Yes, I can understand it better than you do.” “Let us get out of sight.” “You won’t make much by getting out of sight, if you insist upon showing yourself off to the people in the streets beforehand.” Eugene reduced his pace, and labored to be calm; but it was utterly impossible for him to control his emotions. It required all of Dick’s strategy to prevent him from exposing his weakness to the people in the streets. When they reached the river, the sail boat seemed to be the only available resort, and Eugene threw himself on the cushions in the standing-room, the very picture of despair and desolation. The conduct of Mary Kingman was as mysterious as it was painful. Dick hoisted the sails, and took charge of the boat, leaving his companion to vent his sorrows by himself. The wind was very light, and the boat slowly receded from the shore. Eugene did not speak, and his common-sense friend watched the sails in silence, deeming it best to let the first transports of grief spend themselves. At last the disappointed lover looked up into the face of Dick, but the anguish of his heart was still visible in his countenance. “What shall I do, Dick?” he asked. “Do nothing,” replied Dick, rather sternly. “You don’t understand it.” “I do, perfectly. I don’t want to say anything to hurt your feelings, Hungerford, but I congratulate you upon this thing.” “You are making sport of me.” “On my soul, I am not! I mean what I say. It is fortunate for you that this thing happened when it did, and as it did.” “No, Dick!” “I mean so.” “You cannot be so barbarous.” “Barbarous? We haven’t got the facts yet, but if this girl has run away with a dissolute person, you are a lucky fellow to escape from further contact with her.” “You don’t know her, Dick.” “I don’t want to know her if she is what she appears to be.” “I will not believe _she_ meditates anything wrong, Dick. Mary Kingman was an angel!” “All girls are, under certain circumstances.” “No, no, Dick; you will not understand me.” “Hungerford, I know you feel bad, and I am sorry for you; but I must speak my mind, if I speak at all, whether you like it or not. It appears now that the girl has run away with a man whose character is not above par.” “Don’t, Dick!” “Don’t what? I only state the fact.”