"Mr. Stewart!" and the wasted hand was extended.

"Mary Irving! or is this an illusion?" Tightly the hand was clasped.

"It is I----your old pupil, though so altered, I wonder not that you
fail to recognize me." She lifted her eyes and met Dr. Bryant's gaze,
deep and piercing, as though he were reading her inmost soul. Mr.
Stewart looked long at the face turned toward him.

"Frank, you did not tell me she was with you! Oh, how changed--how
wasted you are! But what means this black dress?" and his fingers
clutched her mourning gown, while his deep tone faltered. Mary drew
closer to his side, and murmured:

"Florry is well: but my uncle has been taken from us." Her head sunk
on her bosom as she spoke.

"Where is Florence?" and he tightly clasped her hand between his own.

A shudder crept over Dr. Bryant, who had not heard their words, and he
walked quickly away.

"Florry is in the tent. Mr. Stewart, we heard that you were married;
can this be true?"

"No, no! Did your cousin credit the report?"

"Yes; and ere you make yourself known, let me in some degree prepare
her for the meeting."