been so perfectly accidental, no one could blame him, or object to its having occurred."

"Not in the least, dear Mary, I am sure—if it was a meeting calculated to raise and strengthen your spirits. And it has made you happier, I hope," looking rather doubtfully into Mary's pale and anxious countenance, on which too the traces of tears were plainly visible.

"Oh, yes, Alice!" Mary faintly replied. "Seeing Eugene was, indeed, a pleasure most welcome and unexpected; but then you know the parting again for so long a time—and—and—" turning her head away with a sigh, "altogether it might be called rather a painful pleasure."

"But then, Mary, six months will so soon pass away."

"Yes, certainly," hesitated Mary; but there was no very cheerful security in her tone.

Mrs. Gillespie did not press her sister further on the subject just then, for she plainly perceived that altogether it was one in which truly as much of pain as pleasure was commingled. Of course she informed her husband of the occurrence; and Mary too spoke of it as openly as was possible, though the reserve she was forced in a great measure to maintain respecting the substance of the interview, the more confirmed her relations in their suspicions, as to its having been one of no very satisfactory nature.

"And what, as far as you were able to judge, in so short a time, did you think of your intended brother-in-law, my dear Alice?" the husband inquired of his wife the evening after the meeting; "for I know you consider yourself a first rate physiognomist."

"What do I think of him Robert?"—with a sigh—"poor Mary."

"Why, poor Mary, do you not like his appearance?"

"I should not much like to trust my happiness, or that of any one I loved, to his keeping."

"Indeed! he is very good-looking at any rate."

"Yes, handsome certainly—eyes, such as you perhaps have seldom, if ever seen, and which, if they would only look you full in the face, are certainly calculated to do a great deal of execution. But he did not look so into mine; and there was something about his countenance altogether which I cannot explain—something which, though I can fancy it well calculated to make an impression—of some sort or another, over one's mind—I confess on mine—to have been one, which is far from canny. His looks too bespeak him, I am afraid, to be suffering rather from the jading effects of London dissipation, than the gentler pains and anxieties attendant on his situation, as a lover separated from the object of his affection."

Mr. Gillespie looked concerned at this report, feeling a great interest in his amiable young sister-in-law. And though he generally expressed mistrust, with respect to his wife's too hasty reliance on her first impressions, still he was often in the end forced to acknowledge their frequent accuracy.

Yet at the same time, as the countenance of the lover did not in any way alter the case with regard to Mary's position or circumstances, there was nothing to be said or done by her friends whilst awaiting the issue of affairs, but to observe with regret that though with the same meek "patience, abnegation of self, and devotion to others," their sister pursued the even tenor of her way, the cheerful serenity which before had continued to shine forth in her countenance, and characterize her bearing, had departed. Her mind had been evidently unsettled by the rencontre with Eugene Trevor—her heart's calm rest disturbed.

How was it indeed with Mary? Had the hints conveyed by Eugene during their interview depressed her hopes, and re-awakened her misgivings as to the happy issue of the year's probation? Or more bitter still—had anything in that same interview occurred to give that first disenchanting touch, which by degrees detracts from the perfect charm which has hitherto robed our idol, and we see the image of goodness and beauty, whose idol shape we worshipped, melting from our sight, and though still it binds the fatal spell, and still it draws us on, the spirit of our love is changed—a shadow has fallen upon it. We feel it to be "of the earth earthy."

Had Mary received any startling impression, her feelings any boulversement, by beholding Eugene Trevor for the first time so unlike the Eugene she had hitherto loved—under the irritating disturbing influences of opposition and reverse.

But from whatever cause they might proceed, certainly "the gloom and the shadow" spread broader and deeper on her brow; and when on his return from the Moors, Eugene Trevor, probably for the chance of another interview, revisited the Scotch metropolis, he learnt, by particular inquiry of a maid-servant he found standing by the door of Mr. Gillespie's closed house, that the family had left Edinburgh, and gone to the sea-side.

"Were they all well?" he inquired.

"All well, only the young lady, Mrs. Gillespie's sister, a little pale, and pining for country air. So the young Maister Arthur had come, and persuaded them to put up their gear, and take the bairns and all to the sea; but the maister was expected home the morrow, if the gentleman liked to step up and see him."

We may imagine that Trevor had no inclination to tarry for this purpose, and that same day left Scotland en route for Montrevor.

CHAPTER III.

It was Epsom week. London was all astir with the influx of company returning from the races.

A pale girl sat alone in one of the apartments of an hotel in Brook Street, listening long and anxiously to the coming sounds of the carriage-wheels, as they whirled along in that direction.

At length a carriage stopped before the door, and in a few moments a lady entered the room, whose showy costume and flushed excited countenance, (forming so strong a contrast to the appearance of the other, whom she warmly greeted,) plainly evinced her to have but just returned from that gay resort, the Stand at Epsom.

"You are come then, dear Mary. I hope you have not been very long waiting."

"No, not so very long," and the eyes of the speaker wandered anxiously towards the door, as if she seemed to expect the appearance of a second person.

Mrs. de Burgh understood that glance too well—she shook her head compassionately.

"Alas!—no, dear Mary; you must not expect to see him just now; he has been unfortunately prevented—that was the reason which made me so late; but I will tell you all about it presently, only let me have a glass of wine first, for I am nearly exhausted."

And during the interval of suspense, whilst Mrs. de Burgh refreshed herself after the fatiguing pleasures of the day, let us remind our readers, that the momentous year had some little time ago drawn to a close. Its expiration had not, however, brought with it, any immediate results.

Nothing had been seen or heard of Eugene Trevor by any of the family for the first month or two. He had been in London only at intervals, and he had not opened any communication with his fiancée, till she—on coming to London at the urgent solicitation of her sister Lady Morgan, who was not well—had a few days after her arrival, been surprised by a note from Mrs. de Burgh, whom she was not aware was even in town, begging her to come to her—naming a particular day—at the hotel where she was staying—as Eugene Trevor wished particularly to see her. She added that he would be obliged by her not mentioning the object of this visit to her relations, lest by any chance they might interfere with the interview, and it was very necessary that it should occur, before any more