"And that then was Eugene Trevor, Mary?" she said half interrogatively, half in soliloquy.
"Yes, that was Eugene," was the answer, accompanied by a deep-drawn sigh.
But there had been something in Mrs. Gillespie's tone which caused her at the same moment to turn her eyes anxiously upon her face, as if to discover what impression the "Eugene Trevor," thus significantly emphasized, had made upon the speaker.
"Is he like what you expected?" she then timidly inquired.
"Yes—no—that is to say, not exactly," was the sister's rather hesitating reply.
"He is looking ill now," Mary continued; "and you did not see him to advantage. It was of course rather an embarrassing meeting for him, under existing circumstances, he not knowing exactly how you might be inclined to approve of our interview, just at present; but I should think from it having 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.