Slowly the head drooped, till the hat concealed her features.

“We shall miss you very much when you are gone.  Florry and I feel deeply grateful for your continued kindness, and never—­no, never shall we forget your care of my uncle.”

“Take care—­take care; you are dropping your reins.”

He gathered them up and replaced them in her hand.

“Thank you; I had quite forgotten them.”

“Do you not think it would be best for you and Florence to return to your friends in Louisiana?  This is an unpleasant home for you.”

“It was my uncle’s wish that we should remain here, and I know Florry would not consent to leave, unless some danger threatened.  We have learned to love San Antonio more dearly than any other place, except our old home;” replied Mary, earnestly.

“By the bye, I had almost forgotten to mention that I have had a letter from an old friend, who inquired very particularly after you—­Dudley Stewart; you knew him, I think, in New Orleans.  His letter is dated six months ago; but I am happy to receive it at all during these unsettled times.”

“We heard of his marriage,” said Mary, in a low tone, as the image of Florence rose before her.

“His marriage!  Oh, no! you must be mistaken.  He would most certainly have mentioned it, for we are old and intimate friends.”

“It was reported that he had married his cousin.”

“Ah! is that all?  I am not much surprised that you should have heard that, for before I left home it was quite current.  His widowed mother was very anxious to make the match; but Stewart assured me he would never comply with her wishes, as he had fully resolved never to wed a woman he did not tenderly love; and though quite pretty, Ellen is not sufficiently intellectual to attract such a man.”

“Are you quite sure of this, Dr. Bryant?” said Mary, in a quick, eager tone.

“Certainly; I had it from his own lips.”

“Oh!  I”—­She stopped short, and her cheek crimsoned, as she met the piercing glance of his dark eye bent upon her face.  Her small hands trembled so that the reins quivered, and she closed her eyes for a moment, while the glow fled from her cheeks, leaving them pale as marble.

He caught her hand, and steadied her in her saddle.

“Forgive my inattention, Miss Irving, you are not strong enough to extend your ride.  Your face is very pale, and you look fatigued.”

“Yes, let us go home—­home.”  Her voice was low and faltering, and she with difficulty restrained the tears which sprung to her eyes.

They turned their horses’ heads, and neither attempted to remove the restraint which both experienced.  They entered the town, and then seeing her hand glide quickly to her side, he gently said: 

“I am afraid we are riding too fast for you.”

Her lips writhed for a moment with acute pain; but with a faint smile, which touched him with its sadness, she replied: