g
energy.

'Gilbert, don't!' she cried, in a tone that would have pierced a heart of
adamant. 'For God's sake, don't you attempt these arguments! No fiend
could torture me like this!'

'I won't, I won't!' said I, gently laying my hand on hers; almost as much
alarmed at her vehemence as ashamed of my own misconduct.

'Instead of acting like a true friend,' continued she, breaking from me,
and throwing herself into the old arm-chair, 'and helping me with all
your might--or rather taking your own part in the struggle of right
against passion--you leave all the burden to me;--and not satisfied with
that, you do your utmost to fight against me--when you know that!--' she
paused, and hid her face in her handkerchief.

'Forgive me, Helen!' pleaded I. 'I will never utter another word on the
subject. But may we not still meet as friends?'

'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.

'But we may write,' I timidly suggested. 'You will not deny me that
consolation?'

'We can hear of each other through my brother.'

'Your brother!' A pang of remorse and shame shot through me. She had
not heard of the injury he had sustained at my hands; and I had not the
courage to tell her. 'Your brother will not help us,' I said: 'he would
have all communion between us to be entirely at an end.'

'And he would be right, I suppose. As a friend of both, he would wish us
both well; and every friend would tell us it was our interest, as well as
our duty, to forget each other, though we might not see it ourselves.
But don't be afraid, Gilbert,' she added