"I dare not think so," he said. "Surely God will be more merciful than to leave my life an utter blank. No mother's love have I ever known; mine has been, and is a dreary, unloved lot. Is it a wonder my heart clings to you, loves you so madly? and yet you will not even let me try and win you; but would shut out all hope. If you loved another; then—then indeed I would not plead; but, as it is—it is scarcely kind, Miss Neville; forgive me for saying so."
"Believe me, I do not wish to be unkind," faltered Amy. "I think my decision would have been the kindest in the end. But enough; it shall be as you wish, only you must not blame me hereafter."
"Neither now nor ever!"
And so they parted, both sorrowful at heart, both feeling the future which seemed to loom so gloomily for each; neither daring to look beyond the shadow even now flitting across their path.
Little did Frances Strickland think while loitering in the school-room awaiting Amy, that the very meeting she had come to prevent had taken place.
Just as she was growing impatient, and wondering at the unwonted delay, Miss Neville entered.
"I have been waiting to make my adieux," she said, "having heard you were going away, and I did not like you should go without a word of farewell."
Amy was quite unprepared for this, and looked her surprise.
"Do we part friends, Miss Neville?"
"I can scarcely say yes," replied Amy, "our acquaintance has been but short, and—and—you have never liked me, Miss Strickland; if you recollect you almost told me so once."