"I will not be watched," I say, pettishly; "and I detest being taken care of. I am not ill. Even when a heart is sick unto death, there is no cure for it. And I would not have Tynon on any account. Every time I met his eyes I would know what he was thinking about. I would read pity in every glance and gesture, and I will not be made more wretched than I am by sympathy."
"Then take Martha. You know how attached to you she is.—-"
"No; I will have no one to remind me of the old life. Do not urge me, 'Duke. Give me my own way in this. Believe me, if you do, I shall have a far better chance of—peace."
"I wish, for your sake, I was dead," says 'Duke, hoarsely.
At this I begin to cry again, weakly. I am almost worn out.
"You will at least write to me, now and then, Phyllis?"
"It will be better not."
"Why? I have sworn not to see you again, but I must and will have some means of knowing whether you are dead or alive. Promise me that twice a year, once in every six months, you will let me have a letter. It is only a little thing to ask, out of all the happy past."
"I promise. But you—will you stay here?"
"Here?" he echoes, bitterly. "What do you take me for? In this house, where every room and book and flower would remind me of your sweet presence? No, we will leave it together: I shall look my last on it with you I will not stay to see it desolate and gray and cold without its mistress. You must let me be your escort to your new home, that people may have less to wonder at."