Six months from the point at which we left our story, a party of gentlemen, who on their way to the Highland Moors, had stopped in Edinburgh for the night, strolled together in the public gardens of the place.

They found little company there besides children and nurse-maids at that time, so that a young lady of quiet, but distinguished appearance, who came towards them and turned down one of the shady walks, with a group of little companions followed by their attendant, more particularly attracted the attention of the strangers.

"What a remarkably pretty, lady-like looking girl, that is; how well she walks," said one.

"So Trevor seems to think," said another, for their friend had lingered behind, and now stood apparently half irresolute, looking in the direction where the young lady had disappeared.

"Come on, don't let us be in his way," and then laughing, they pursued their walk.

Trevor seemed not disinclined to profit by their consideration—he hesitated no longer, but disappeared at once within the shaded path.

Need we say, whose footsteps he followed—or whose the startled countenance, which turned towards him, when having reached the spot where the object of his pursuit had arrived, he in a low tone pronounced the name of "Mary," or how in an opposite direction to that taken by the nurse and children, they were soon walking on slowly, side by side, together.

"But Eugene, is not this wrong?" Mary said, after the first tearful joy of this most unexpected meeting had a little subsided, and her heart rather sunk, to find by her lover's hasty explanation, that no new turn of events, touching favourably on their mutual happiness, had brought him to her side. "Is not this wrong after the agreement we had made?"

"What Mary!" with tender reproach, "are you so little glad to see me as thus to speak? However, as you are so much more scrupulous than affectionate, I am not afraid to tell you that I had not counted upon this pleasure, though I did not think myself bound quite to avoid the place which contained you; but when, by mere accident, I saw you a few yards distant, I think not the most punctilious of your friends, would expect it to be in the nature of man, to look after you and turn coolly the other way."

Mary smiled upon him, as if she needed no other excuse.

"How well you look, Mary!" Eugene continued, gazing on the countenance of his companion, lit up, as it was, by the glow of animated pleasure, "happier, better, than when I saw you last—too well, I am almost tempted to think, and too happy, considering the circumstances of our case. I—you must allow, look far less so."

Mary gazed with tender anxiety into her lover's face. Was she then really to suppose that the change she remarked upon his handsome countenance, since the happy Silverton days, was caused by his love for her?

The haggard cheek—the restless, unhealthful fire which burnt in those dark eyes! A thrill of womanly pleasure was mixed with the tender pain the idea inspired.

"You certainly do not look as well as when at Silverton," she answered with a gentle sigh, as the many associations those words conjured up, rose before her; "but your expedition to the Moors will do you so much good. If you have been in London all this time, I do not wonder at your feeling ill. As for my looks," she added, "no doubt at this moment they are bright and happy—you must not judge of them in general from their appearance now, not that I mean to say I am not happier, and perhaps therefore looking better than when you saw me last—for then—all was doubt, and dread, and uncertainty, and I was very miserable—but now since all that was removed, I have been happy—yes, truly happy in comparison; though at times I fear I am inclined to be sad and impatient-hearted. I was spoilt at first by too much unalloyed happiness, and it is hard to resign oneself to the long and unbroken separation, I had thought ours must be, but there is the happy prospect at the end—and this year, long and weary as it may seem—must pass away like any other."

"This year—yes!" murmured Eugene abstractedly, gazing on the sweet earnest countenance of the good and gentle speaker—"yes, this year," he repeated with an impatient flash suddenly lighting up his eyes; "but you should have been my wife now, Mary," and lowering his voice, "you would have been, if you had loved me, as I thought you did, and had not cut so short what I proposed doing during that drive in London."

Mary looked startled and surprised.

"Eugene!" she said, "I know you do not mean what you say—you never, but in the madness and misery of the moment, could have suggested such an alternative."

"Why not, dear Mary?"

"Why?" with gentle reproach. "Why—for every reason, Eugene."

"Every one is not so scrupulous as yourself, Mary. Olivia thought it a great pity we did not avail ourselves of that expedient; she would have assisted us in every way."

"What, Eugene—you really went so far as to consult with a third person, on such a subject."

"Oh! Olivia and I, you know, are sworn allies; besides, I believe it was she who suggested the idea. Ladies are always the first to originate mischievous designs in our unlucky brains."

Mary shook her head.

"Olivia was very wrong," she said; "she must have known that I should never have consented to such an alternative."

"She only knew, or thought at least, that you loved me; and therefore, as with all her faults, she has a warm heart; she could not probably conceive such coldness in your love, Mary."

The tears rose to Mary's eyes.

"Coldness!" she repeated. "Oh, Eugene! how can you apply such a term to my affection?—coldness in rejecting an expedient which I should think the most extreme, and peculiar circumstances alone could justify."

"To what kind of circumstances do you allude, Mary?" Eugene inquired anxiously, and with recovered tenderness of tone, and manner.

"Nothing fortunately, dear Eugene, which can in any manner apply to our case; we who have only need of a little patience for our path to be clear and plain before us. This year over, and if all goes right, you will not, I think, accuse me any more of having acted coldly in this respect."

"No, Mary, as you say—if all goes right, it will be as well; but supposing that at the end of this year—for, remember that time was specified quite at random, and because I had no heart to name a longer period—supposing that the existing obstacle was unremoved, and that another, and another, and another year were to pass before it were possible we could be openly united—"

"Oh, Eugene!" interposed poor Mary, turning very pale; "and is this really likely to be the case?"

"I did not say it was likely—but it is possible—and suppose it so to be?"

He paused for her reply, and still she answered faintly:

"Oh, then, Eugene, the trial would be great, yet we must still trust in God, and abide patiently his good time and pleasure."

"Mary," interrupted Eugene, almost passionately, "your patience indeed exceeds all bounds," and he turned petulantly away.

Poor Mary was cut to the heart by this first manifestation of anything, but the most tender approval on Trevor's part; she exclaimed:

"Oh, Eugene! what would you have me to do?" and the tempter was determined not to throw away the advantage he had thus far gained.

His present object, as may be supposed, was not to have any immediate recourse to the expedient he was advancing, but rather to smooth the way, in case of further exigency. For again with Mary—once more looking on her sweet face—listening to her gentle voice, and feeling the magic charm her guileless excellency never failed to exercise over him, he was as much in love as ever, and determined, whatever might happen, never to be foiled in his endeavours to possess a treasure, whose price he felt, would indeed be "far above rubies."

Nay, he even began to think that he had perhaps been too easily turned from his original design, and was almost ready to accuse himself of weakness and cowardice; therefore to Mary's question, he replied still somewhat coldly.

"I would have you show that you really loved me, by consenting to a step which might, under certain circumstances, be the only means of securing our final happiness. My happiness—that is to say—and your's," he added softly. "I had hoped, dearest Mary, you would also have considered it."

"My happiness, indeed, Eugene; but still deceit of any kind to me is so very repugnant, even in idea, that I scarcely know how I should ever be able to enact it—deceit too of such a grave and responsible character—enacted against those dearest to me. What a return for their affectionate and anxious regard for my welfare!"

"Yes," answered Eugene, somewhat hurriedly, "that tormenting point about money matters, and a few more directly touching myself. But I am unwise, perhaps, in so committing myself," he added again coldly. "Your love of truth, which do not fancy I cannot thoroughly appreciate, may also force you to communicate all that has now passed between us to your friends and relations."

"Eugene, you are unkind," poor Mary murmured, in accents of wounded affection.

He took her hand, pressing it to his lips in a manner which expressed the tenderest, humblest sorrow—and the ready tearful smile told him he was too easily forgiven.

"What sort of a man is this brother-in-law of yours, Mary?" Eugene then asked.

"A very kind good man," Mary answered. "I am sure, I ought to say so."

"And your sister?"

"She is my sister, and therefore when I tell you that she is in my eyes perfection, you will indeed think me partial."

"And you are then altogether perfectly happy," with renewed pique.

This time she only answered him with a glance, her heart too full for words.

"Forgive me, dearest, if I am jealous," Eugene exclaimed, again appeased, "of every one, even your own sister; but I shall be thankful indeed to have no further excuse for the indulgence of that feeling. Oh! Mary, I have often cruel misgivings respecting you."

"Respecting me, Eugene?"

"Yes, lest by any means you should during our separation be induced to love, nay, even the idea that you should be loved by any one save myself, is almost to me as repugnant."

"What can you mean, Eugene?" turning her eyes upon him, with doubting surprise; "I love any one, you cannot be in earnest—as to any one loving me."

"Well, do you think that so very much out of the question—Mr. Temple for instance?"

These last words were spoken in a faltering, agitated voice, the speaker's countenance undergoing a strange, a most unpleasing change, whilst an ashy paleness spread over it, his eyes, in which glared a sinister expression, fixed upon the clear open countenance of Mary, who that moment was pensively looking down, or indeed she might well have been startled at the new light which shone from her lover's face.

"Mr. Temple!" she repeated slowly, and sadly "ah, yes!" with a thoughtful sigh, "but surely, Eugene, I satisfied you fully on that point, when I told you I refused him."

"Yes, I know," but in a quick suspicious tone, "why did you sigh when you repeated that man's name?"

"Did I sigh?"

"To be sure, you did; Mary, pray do not let me imagine that you repent—that for a moment you have ever regretted you refused that—man, the idea would distract me."

"Eugene, Eugene! you are very strange to-day," replied the astonished girl, "how is it possible that I could have regretted it, when so soon after I met you—and now—"

Her soft glance finished the sentence, and seemed to express that now such an idea would indeed be madness. Eugene pressed her arm grateful for this soothing assurance, but still seemed not perfectly satisfied.

"And supposing even that you had not met with me so soon after," he persisted, "you never would have regretted this act of yours? Mary, you do not answer. Is it possible," turning almost fiercely towards her, "that on second thoughts, on mature consideration, you ever could have consented to marry that man?"

Mary's spirit, like that of many persons of her gentle disposition, could be roused by any such unjust or unreasonable display of temper, and she answered calmly:

"Most people would have wondered how it were possible, I refrained from loving that excellent, that delightful man, who for four long years I had daily seen in the exercise of every good and beneficial work, and of whose amiable and exalted character, I had such full opportunity of judging. It must indeed have been one of the inscrutable ways of Providence, which preserved my heart all whole and entire for you, Eugene."

But the affectionate glance she lifted up towards her lover, was met by one so dark and sinister in its expression, that she started and shrank, as at the same moment, with an impetuous, almost violent movement, her arm was released by her companion.

"This is too much," he muttered angrily, "if I am to stay here only to have rang in my ear the praises of this Temple, as he calls himself, I think it is time that I should be off."

Poor Mary, after one moment's astounded silence, placed her gentle hand tremulously on his arm.

"Eugene!" she faltered, "do not I entreat you look or speak like that, you distress, you terrify me, and really this anger on your part is so unaccountable, so uncalled for, I cannot understand it."

"Not understand it, Mary? Not understand why I should hate to hear you eulogize and wonder at your not having been inclined to marry that detested man? Why I shall next be hearing you wondering what ever made you love me."

Incautious suggestion—why indeed had she loved him? What if Mary, in after hours, when thinking over this scene, should recall that question for cooler discussion, and diving into the recesses of her reasonable soul for its solution, bring forth no more definite response than the reiteration of the question. Why indeed?

Why are we ever inclined to choose the evil and reject the good? Why do we ever love darkness better than light? Why are our eyes blinded, our imagination diseased, our taste perverted, and our heart deceived?

But not now did Mary meditate upon this mystery, she only meekly and tearfully exclaimed against any such imputation.

"Why I love you, Eugene? alas! I begin almost to think you never loved me, or you would not surely distress me by such words and expressions. Mr. Temple—"

"Mary, do not speak that hated name again."

"I will not; too gladly will I avoid a subject which makes you so unlike yourself, but remember, Eugene, it was you who first began it, for it is one I should never have resumed. Mr. Temple," she repeated more firmly, "however I may honour his memory, is as one henceforth dead to me; he has for some time left the country, and it is not probable that I shall ever see him again in this world."

"So be it!" again murmured Eugene through his closed teeth, but added, perceiving probably as his heated spirit cooled, that his violence on this subject was making too much impression on his companion.

"I have indeed perhaps been exciting myself to an unreasonable extent, but I do not know how it is, there was always something from the first, that from what you told me of this Mr. Temple gave me a disagreeable impression, something about him which seemed mysterious, underhand and suspicious."

Mary's voice was about to be raised in indignant refutation of a charge so unfounded, but cautious prudence checked the ebullition which might only have led to fresh irritation on Eugene's part, but, as bright as noontide, open as the day, there flashed before her memory those clear dark eyes, the glance, the countenance of that aspersed one, it must have been a dangerous crisis, for him who had spoken the injurious idea, with such sidelong glance and downcast averted countenance.

Mary's forbearance seemed nevertheless to have restored her companion's equanimity. He was in a moment all affectionate contrition, and Mary all forgiving kindness—still more gratifying Eugene's exigence by comparing the unbroken monotony of her present existence with his own exciting career; and telling him how much more there was, therefore, on her side to call forth misgivings on his account, yet how her perfect trust, her entire faith sustained her.

"I am as happy indeed," she continued calmly, "as I can be under present circumstances. I might have preferred perhaps being with my dear brother, but my friends thought that would not quite do at present."

Eugene's brow darkened. He had no great fancy just now for that "dear brother."

"Yes—yes," he said somewhat hastily, "I quite agree with them, you are certainly better where you are, just now; he is too young, and your sister no doubt is, as you say, a delightful person."

"She is indeed," Mary answered with alacrity, "I wish you could know her Eugene. Is it not possible?" Then remembering the circumstances of their meeting she hesitated, and paused dejectedly.

"It seems so strange and unnatural to me," she added, "that none of those I love so well should have ever seen or known you—none but Arthur," she added in a low tone.

There was nothing very agreeable associated in Eugene Trevor's mind at this moment, with the later circumstances of that acquaintance, though he hastened to express slightly his own corresponding regret; however the truth was, as may be imagined, that he felt little inclination at this juncture for an encounter with any of his betrothed's belongings, more especially the dry Scotch lawyer—imagination pictured to him.

If, indeed, it had not been for the nurse and children, he would probably have suggested that Mary should keep silence on the subject of their interview; but as it was, he could only resign the affair into her hands, and rely upon her representation of the circumstance.

He must now think of beating a retreat; but first of all he asked her how long she was to remain in her present abode.

She scarcely knew—probably all the winter.

"And am I never to hear from you, or of you, all this time?" he demanded.

She shook her head sadly.

"I do not know Eugene how—your agreement was you remember, that we should not meet, or even write, to one another."

"Do you and Olivia correspond?" Eugene then asked.

"Seldom: Olivia lately has been a very bad correspondent."

"No wonder; she has had other things to think of lately. She has been going on at a fine rate this season in London, nearly driven Louis mad. At last he took the children down to Silverton, and left her behind."

"Poor dear Louis!" murmured Mary, with sorrowful concern.

"Yes, Mary, you and I would have been very different."

At those words, into which were thrown a most thrilling amount of tenderness, both of look and accent, Eugene paused.

They had hitherto been pacing slowly up and down a certain part of the retired grounds, but now pressing his companion's arm close to his heart, he said in an agitated voice.

"And now, Mary, how shall I ever make up my mind to leave you; and how shall I exist without you?"

Mary had just lifted up her pale face with a look of piteous sorrow, at words which she felt at once were preliminaries to the bitter parting, when their attention was attracted by the voices of her sister's children, announcing them to have advanced in closer proximity than the discreet tact of their attendant had previously permitted. But on glancing in that direction, Eugene was not a little disconcerted to behold slowly advancing amongst the young group, a lady whom it needed not Mary's murmured explanation to denote to him at once as her sister.

There was nothing to do but for them to advance and meet one another. Mary's former pallor had been speedily chased by a deep blush, and with nervous embarrassment she murmured an introduction.

Eugene's manner too was consciously confused.

Mrs. Gillespie, whatever might have been the surprise and interest she felt on finding her sister so accompanied, was all calm and quiet civility, such as that with which she might have received any strange acquaintance of Mary's.

And Eugene—ominous as this cool reception might appear of the feeling generally entertained by the family of Mary towards him—could not but hail it as a relief to the embarrassment of his present situation, and consider the course of conduct she thus pursued, that of a lady-like and sensible person such, as he could at once perceive in their short interview, his sister-in-law elect to be.

So they walked down the shady walk together: Mary anxious and silent, Mrs. Gillespie and Eugene exchanging common place observations respecting Edinburgh, and his intended expedition to the Moors.

Then the lady paused, as if intending to show that she purposed proceeding in a different direction to that of her new companion. And, understanding the hint, Eugene Trevor turned, and taking Mary's hand pressed it as fondly, and gazed into her pale face as significantly as he dared, murmured a few incoherent syllables of parting, then bowed to the sister, and departed.