"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.