he answered.

I tried to wish him good luck, and great success, and a happy return to
fame and fortune. He looked at me with his great liquid eyes and said:

"Aw, well, that's all as one now."

I tried to tell him it would always be a joy to me to remember that he
and I had been such great, great friends.

He looked at me again, and answered:

"That's all as one also."

I reproached myself for the pain I was causing him, and to keep myself
in countenance I began to talk of the beauty and nobility of
renunciation--each sacrificing for the other's sake all sinful thoughts
and desires.

"Yes, I'm doing what you wish," he said. "I can't deny you anything."

That cut me deep, so I went on to say that if I had acted otherwise I
should always have had behind me the memory of the vows I had broken,
the sacrament I had violated, and the faith I had abandoned.

"All the same we might have been very happy," he said, and then my
throat became so thick that I could not say any more.

After a few moments he said:

"It breaks my heart to leave you. But I suppose I must, though I don't
know what is going to happen."

"All that is in God's hands," I said.

"Yes," said Martin, "it's up to Him now."

It made my heart ache to look at his desolate face, so, struggling hard
with my voice, I tried to tell him he must not despair.

"You are so young," I said. "Surely the future holds much happiness for
you."

And then, though I knew that the bare idea of another woman taking the
love I was turning away would have made the world a blank for me, I
actually said something about the purest joys of love falling to his lot
some day.

"No, by the Lord God," said Martin. "There'll be no other woman for me.
If I'm not to have you I'll wear the willow for you the same as if you
were dead."

There was a certain pain in that, but there was a thrill of secret joy
in it too.

He was still holding my hand. We held each other's hands a long time. In
spite of my affected resignation I could not let his hand go. I felt as
if I were a drowning woman and his hand were my only safety.
Nevertheless I said:

"We must say good-night and good-bye now."

"And if it is for ever?"

"Don't say that."

"But if it is?"

"Well, then . . . for ever."

"At least give me something to take away with me," he said.

"Better not," I answered, but even as I spoke I dropped the handkerchief
which I had been holding in my other hand and he picked i