“Oh, Helen! my own noble beautiful one, my life’s treasure, it will be death to me to part with you. I cannot, will not, go: I will submit to any sacrifice rather. I will not be torn from you, for, in truth, it will break my heart.”
“Hugh, dearest, do not give way thus,” she rejoined, as her youthful companion, under the intense pressure of his feelings, suffered his head to fall upon her neck, and sobbed passionately; “this is not like you, Hugh: I have seen you brave enough in desperate peril—come, be brave now. Remember you are making yourself unhappy upon a surmise only.”
“Would I could view it only as a surmise, Helen,” he returned, sadly. “Unhappily, I have too much occasion for faith in the presentiment which oppresses me.”
“Mere childishness, Hugh! We have parted before, but only to meet again, and with increased happiness. You quitted me hopefully, you have returned to me joyously; why not again?”
“It is clear, Helen,” he said, raising up his head, and dashing away the tear which yet trembled on his cheek, “that you can contemplate a separation with calmness and firmness.”
“In expectation of meeting you soon again, certainly,” she replied.
His quick ear detected a slight coolness, and a little impatience in the tone.
“But in expectation of not soon meeting again?” he asked, sharply and with misgiving.
“Why imagine that which is not likely to happen?” she returned, pettishly.
“I have told you that it will happen.”