h you," says Molly; and, with a
last lingering glance at their beloved nook, they go silently away.

When they reach the gate they pause and look at each other in
speechless sorrow. Like all partings, it seems at the moment final, and
plants within their hearts the germs of an unutterable regret.

"Good-bye, my life, my darling," he whispers, brokenly, straining her
to him as though he never means again to let her go: then, almost
pushing her away, he turns and leaves her.

But she cannot part from him yet. When he has gone a hundred yards or
more, she runs after him along the quiet moonlit road and throws
herself once more into his arms.

"Teddy, Teddy," she cries, "do not go yet," and falls to weeping as
though her heart would break. "It is the bitterness of death," she
says, "and it _is_ death. I know we shall never meet again."

"Do not speak like that," he entreats, in deep agitation. "I know--I
believe--we shall indeed meet again, and under happier circumstances."

"Ah, you can find comfort!" Reproachfully. "You are not half sorry to
part from me."

"Oh, Molly, be reasonable."

"If you can find _any_ consolation at this moment, you are not.
And--if you meet any one--anywhere--and--like her better than me--you
will kill me: remember that."

"Now, where," argues he, in perfect sincerity, "could I meet any one to
be compared with you?"

"But how shall I know it--not hearing from you for so many months?" She
says this as though he, not she, had forbidden the correspondence.

"Then why not take something from those wretched six months?" he says,
craftily.

"I don't know. Yes,"--doubtfully,--"it is too long a time. In four
months, then, I shall write,--yes, in four months. Now I do not feel
quite so bad. Sixteen weeks will not be so long going by."

"One would be shorter still."

"No, no." Smiling. "Would you have me break through all my resolution?
Be faithful to me, Teddy, and I will be faithful to you.
Here,"--lifting her hands to her neck,--"I am not half satisfied with
that stupid lock of hair: it may fall out, or you may lose it some way.
Take this little chain"--loosening it from round her throat and giving
it to him--"and wear it next your heart until we meet again,--if
indeed"--sighing--"we ever do meet again. Does not all this sound like
the sentiment of a hundred years ago? But do not laugh at me: I mean
it."

"I will do as you bid me," replies he, kissing the slender chain as
though it we