Eugene stamped his foot impatiently upon the ground. The analysis of his conduct which Dick Birch had given him had assured him of this fact, and it was now confirmed from Mary’s own mouth. He did not curse himself, for he had meant well; but he severely blamed his own blindness, and wondered that he had not been permitted to see what had been so plain to others. “I am sorry I did not understand her better.” “I know that Mary was sorry any money had come to you. I’m sure she liked you for yourself, Mr. Hungerford, and not for what you had.” “Would that I had known it before!” “I should think you might have known it. Mary did not keep things to herself much.” “I was wrong.” “When I saw that she felt bad, and was disappointed, I could not help feeling hard towards you, myself,” added Ross. “Still, as I looked at it more, I concluded that it was hardly fair to expect a man with your money would marry a poor girl like her, and with things in the family as they have been with us.” “That would have made no difference with me.” “Well, I suppose it is of no use to cry for spilt milk. It’s done now, and can’t be helped. I only hope the man she has married is the right sort of person, though I didn’t think much of him the day I saw him here.” Ross, though a quiet and well-behaved young man in the main, was belligerent, like his father, upon provocation. Eugene did not dare to hint even a suspicion that Mary had been deceived; that Mr. Buckstone was capable of deluding an innocent maiden with the mockery of a fictitious marriage; but he could not banish the idea from his own mind. At his instigation, Dick had been engaged for a month past, through a legal friend in Providence, in an investigation of the circumstances attending Mr. Buckstone’s visit to that city with Mary. It had been ascertained that a marriage, real or pretended, had taken place at the house of the artist; but the legal gentleman having the matter in charge had been unable to find the person who had performed the ceremony. The artist was reserved and taciturn; the lawyer had coaxed and threatened him without effect. No record of the marriage had been made, and the obstinacy of the artist, who naturally dreaded a criminal prosecution, if anything was wrong, was a suspicious circumstance. Eugene feared the worst. “Ross, what are you going to do this fall and winter?” asked Eugene, as they walked down to the landing-place. “I don’t know yet; very likely I shall go a fishing once more.” “I will give you a thousand dollars a year to work for me.” “A thousand dollars!” exclaimed Ross; for the sum was twice as much as he had ever earned before. “Of course I will take it.” “Then the year shall commence to-day.” “What am I to do?”