her hands she loosens
all her pretty hair, letting it fall in a bright shower around her.
"You shall have one little lock all to yourself," she says. "Choose,
and cut it where you will."

Tenderly he selects a shining tress,--a very small one, so loath is he,
even for his own benefit, to lessen the glory of her hair,--and,
severing it, consigns it to the back case of his watch.

"That is a good place to keep it," she says, with an upward glance that
permits him to see the love that lives for him in her dewy eyes. "At
least every night when you wind your watch you must think of me."

"I shall think of you morning, noon, and night, for that matter."

"And I,--when shall I think of you? And yet of what avail?" cries she,
in despair; "all our thought will be of no use. It will not bring us
together. We must be always separate,--always apart. Not all our
longing will bring us one day nearer to each other. Our lives are
broken asunder."

"Do not let us waste our last moments talking folly," replies he,
calmly; "nothing earthly shall separate us."

"Yet time, they say, kills all things. It may perhaps--kill--even your
love."

"You wrong me, Molly, in even supposing it. 'They sin, who tell us love
can die,'" quotes he, softly, in a tender, solemn tone. "My love for
you is deathless. Beloved, be assured of this, were we two to live
until old age crept on us, I should still carry to my grave my love for
you."

He is so earnest that in spite of herself a little unacknowledged
comfort comes into her heart. She feels it is no flimsy passion of an
hour he is giving her, but a true affection that will endure forever.

"How changed you are!" he says presently; "you, who used to be so
self-reliant, have now lost all your courage. Try to be brave, Molly,
for both our sakes. And--as I must soon go--tell me, what is your
parting injunction to me?"

"The kindest thing I can say to you is--forget me."

"Then say something unkind. Do you imagine I shall take two such
hateful words as a farewell?"

"Then don't forget me; be _sure_ you don't," cries she, bursting
into tears.

The minutes are flying: surely never have they flown with such cruel
haste.

"Come, let us go in-doors," she says, when she has recovered herself.
"I suppose it is growing late."

"I shall not go in again; I have said good-bye to Mrs. Massereene. It
only remains to part from you."

They kiss each other tenderly.

"I shall walk as far as the gate wit