"It will not do," she replied, mournfully shaking her head; and then she raised her eyes to mine, with a mildly reproachful look that seemed to say, "You must know that as well as I."
"Then what must we do?" cried I, passionately. But immediately I added in a quieter tone—"I'll do whatever you desire;—only don't say that this meeting is to be our last."
"And why not? Don't you know that every time we meet, the thoughts of the final parting will become more painful? Don't you feel that every interview makes us dearer to each other than the last?"
The utterance of this last question was hurried and low, and the downcast eyes and burning blush too plainly showed that she, at least had felt it. It was scarcely prudent to make such an admission, or to add—as she presently did—"I have power to bid you go, now: another time it might be different,"—but I was not base enough to attempt to take advantage of her candour.
