"Yes, and you?"

"I will go, too, where I may find forgetfulness. Good-by."

"Good-by," said Claudia, and gave him her hand again, her heart full of
pity and almost of love. He turned on his heel, and she stood and
watched him go. For a moment a sudden thought flashed through her head.

"Shall I call him back? Shall I ever find such love as his?"

She started a step forward, but stopped again.

"No, I do not love him," she said. "And I do love my careless Eugene.
But God comfort him! O God, comfort him!"

And so standing and praying for him, she let him go.

And he went, with no falter in his step and never a look backward. This
thing also had he set behind him.

Claudia still stood fixed on the spot where he had left her. Then she
sat down on the seat, and gave herself up to memories of their walks and
talks at Millstead.

"Why need he spoil it all?" she cried. "Why need he give me a sad
memory, when I had such a pleasant one? Oh, how foolish they are! What a
pity it's Eugene, and not him! Eugene would never have looked like that.
He'd have made a bitter little speech, and then a pretty little speech,
and smoothed his feathers and flown away. But still it is Eugene! Oh,
dear, I shall never be quite happy again!"

We may reasonably, nay confidently, hope that this was looking at the
black side of things. It is pleasant to act a little to ourselves now
and then. The little pieces are thrilling, and they don't last much
longer than their counterparts upon the stage. With most of us the
curtain falls very punctually, leaving time for a merry supper, where we
forget the headache and the thousand natural and unnatural ills that
passed in our sight before the green baize let fall its merciful veil.

Stafford pursued his way through the woods. Arriving at the lodge gates,
he stopped abruptly, remembering his promise to Eugene. He saw a little
fellow playing about, and called to him.

"Do you know Mr. Lane, my boy?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said the child.

"Then I'll give you something to take to him."

He took a card out of his pocket and wrote on it: "You were right. I am
going to London"; and giving it, with a sixpence, to his messenger,
resumed his journey to the station.

He was stunned. It cannot be denied that he had been blindly hopeful,
blindly confident. He had persuaded himself that his love for Claudia
could be nothing but the outcome of a natural bond between them that
must produce a like feelin