"Is it so with you? For me I am thankful, very thankful, for the great joy that has been mine for months, the knowledge that you loved me. Even now, when desolation has come upon us, the one bright spot in all my misery is the thought that at least I may remember you, and call to mind your words, your face, your voice, without sin."
"If ever you need me," he says, when a few minutes have elapsed, "you have only to write, 'Cyril, I want you,' and though the whole world should lie between us, I shall surely come. O my best beloved! how shall I live without you?"
"Don't,—do not speak like that," entreats she, faintly. "It is too hard already: do not make it worse." Then, recovering herself by a supreme effort, she says, "Let us part now, here, while we have courage. I think the few arrangements we can make have been made, and George Trant will write, if—if there is anything to write about."
They are standing with their hands locked together reading each other's faces for the last time.
"To-morrow you will leave Chetwoode?" she says, regarding him fixedly.
"To-morrow! I could almost wish there was no to-morrow for either you or me," replies he.
"Cyril," she says, with sudden fear, "you will take care of yourself, you will not go into any danger? Darling,"—with a sob,—"you will always remember that some day, when this is quite forgotten, I shall want to see again the face of my dearest friend."
"I shall come back to you," he says quietly. He is so quiet that she tells herself now is a fitting time to break away from him; she forces herself to take the first step that shall part them remorselessly.
"Good-bye," she says, in faltering tones.