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."