"And you,—where will you go?"
"It matters very little. You will have had time to forget me before ever I trust myself to see you again."
"Then I shall never see you again," replies he, mournfully, "if you wait for that. 'My true love hath my heart, and I have hers.' How can I forget you while it beats warm within my breast?"
"Be it so," she answers, with a sigh: "it is a foolish fancy, yet it gladdens me. I would not be altogether displaced from your mind."
So she lays her hand upon his head as he still kneels before her, and gently smooths and caresses it with her light loving fingers. He trembles a little, and a heavy dry sob breaks from him. This parting is as the bitterness of death. To them it is death, because it is forever.
He brings the dear hand down to his lips, and kisses it softly, tenderly.
"Dearest," she murmurs, brokenly, "be comforted."
"What comfort can I find, when I am losing you?"
"You can think of me."
"That would only increase my sorrow."