is natural voice; ay, even
when mentioning HER, which he was the first to do.

"She goes to-morrow, you are sure, Phineas?"

"I believe so. Shall you see her again?"

"If she desires it."

"Shall you say anything to her?"

"Nothing. If for a little while--not knowing or not thinking of all
the truth--I felt I had strength to remove all impediments, I now see
that even to dream of such things makes me a fool, or possibly worse--a
knave. I will be neither--I will be a man."

I replied not: how could one answer such words?--calmly uttered,
though each syllable must have been torn out like a piece of his heart.

"Did she say anything to you? Did she ask why I left her so abruptly
this morning?"

"She did; I said you would probably tell her the reason yourself."

"I will. She must no longer be kept in ignorance about me or my
position. I shall tell her the whole truth--save one thing. She need
never know that."

I guessed by his broken voice what the "one thing" was;--which he
counted as nothing; but which, I think, any true woman would have
counted worth everything--the priceless gift of a good man's love.
Love, that in such a nature as his, if once conceived, would last a
lifetime. And she was not to know it! I felt sorry--ay, even sorry
for Ursula March.

"Do you not think I am right, Phineas?"

"Perhaps. I cannot say. You are the best judge."

"It is right," said he, firmly. "There can be no possible hope for me;
nothing remains but silence."

I did not quite agree with him. I could not see that to any young man,
only twenty years old, with the world all before him, any love could be
absolutely hopeless; especially to a young man like John Halifax. But
as things now stood I deemed it best to leave him altogether to
himself, offering neither advice nor opinion. What Providence willed,
through HIS will, would happen: for me to interfere either way would
be at once idle and perilous; nay, in some sense, exceedingly wrong.

So I kept my thoughts to myself, and preserved a total silence.

John broke it--talking to himself as if he had forgotten I was by.

"To think it was she who did it--that first kindness to a poor
friendless boy. I never forgot it--never. It did me more good than I
can tell. And that scar on her poor arm--her dear little tender
arm;--how this morning I would have given all the world to--"

He broke off--instinctively, as it were--with the sort of feeling every
goo