“You can do nothing but bear it. I pity you, Hungerford, as I pity her.” “Can’t we follow her, and bring her back?” “She would not come, if what you say be true. She loves this Buckstone.” “Can you believe it?” “We have no right to think she does not. When we saw them last on the beach, I could not help thinking that she was favorably inclined towards him. He is a splendid looking fellow. He is an artist, and probably as romantic as a knight errant.” “But Mary was not romantic,” protested Eugene. “Perhaps not. Poor girl! I have ceased to blame her for what she has done.” “Wasn’t it wrong for her to go off so suddenly with this man!” “Undoubtedly he has promised to make her his wife at once. Here she was, driven from her home in the dead of the night, with the fear of death by the hand of her father if she returned; and, with too much pride to burden her friends, whither could she turn?” “Where, indeed!” groaned the disconsolate lover. “Then this Buckstone, who has been pouring the tale of his love into her ears all the time for a week, steps into her presence. He knows something about her family relations, and she tells him what has happened. What more natural than that she should listen to him? What more natural than his offer to be her best and truest friend? Doubtless he proposed to make her his wife without delay, and she, poor girl, not having a resting-place or a near friend on earth, after weakly resisting the appeal for a time, yields the point.” “Will he make her his wife?” whispered Eugene. “Let us hope that he will. They may be man and wife before this time.” “But they say he’s a villain.” “They say so; but he may be an honest man, after all, though I confess that I have my doubts.” “He may deceive her.” “He may.” “Dick, I cannot endure this agony!” cried Eugene, springing to his feet, as he had often done in his excitement. “I must do something to save her; at least I must try to do something.” “Nothing can be done.” “Dick, I feel guilty. If I had spoken what was in my heart, this could not have been.” “We don’t know.” “I know! If I had told her how I loved her; if I had whispered only a tithe of what I felt then, and feel now, this could not have been.” “It might.” “No, Dick.” “Don’t distress yourself. You meant right.” “If Mary comes to harm, it will be my fault. If she is lost, I have destroyed her,” cried Eugene, in his agony. “Nothing of the kind, Hungerford.” “If I had told her what I felt, she would not have countenanced this Buckstone. When we found them in the boat, I saw that his presence was distasteful, if not disagreeable, to her. I think she had begun to love me. As you said before, Dick, my coldness robbed her of all hope, and she has thrown herself away upon this wretch.” “Don’t blame yourself, Hungerford. You did what you believed was right.” “I am guilty, Dick! I must at least try to save her.” “It is too late.”