"I feel dreadfully dull, too," answered John, putting down his wet umbrella and hat on the hall stand, and the next moment he put his hand through the girl's arm. "Come into the drawing-room," said May, softly; "I have been making it all smart, and there is a fire there; it is so wet." They crossed the hall thus, John lightly leaning on May's arm, and entered the drawing-room together. There was a bright fire burning in the grate, and the room was fresh and sweet with flowers. Altogether May had done her best to make it look cheerful, but still John felt very dull. May went up to the fire, and John held out his chilled hands to the blaze. "When do you expect these people to arrive?" he asked. "Father said about six o'clock," replied May. John took out his watch and looked at it. "It's just four now," he said, "and I must go by five; only one hour, May!" May sighed softly, and John turned round and looked at her earnestly, and then also sighed. "The last few days have been very bright, haven't they, May?" he said. "Yes," half-whispered May. "Too bright, I am afraid," went on John; "it will make the coming ones seem dull." "There may be some bright ones still," said May, in a low tone, with downcast eyes and blushing cheeks. Again John looked at her. How pretty she was in her white frock and crimson ribbons! She had a crimson rose in her waistband and another at her throat. "Truly a fair picture," John was thinking, and it was hard, very hard, to say the word he meant to speak. "I am going away, May, for a bit," he said at length, with an effort. "Going away?" repeated the girl quickly, and her face flushed, and then grew a little pale, and John saw this. "Yes," went on John, still with an effort, "I think I shall go abroad for a month or two." May did not speak; her pallor increased, and her agitation was visible. "But I shall never forget Woodside," said John, after a moment's pause, "nor you--Mayflower--I wish I could." "Why?" asked May, in a trembling voice, and she put out her hand as if for support. "Because I would be happier if I could," answered John, also much moved; "I will pay a bitter price, I am afraid, for the bright hours I have spent with you." "Oh, do not go away, Mr. Temple!" cried May, suddenly, looking at him with imploring eyes. "I--I shall be so lonely--I shall--" "We must try to forget all this," said John, and he put his arm around her and pressed his lips on hers. "Dear little girl--dear Mayflower--it is hard, it is bitter to go from you." Tears rushed into May's eyes, and John kissed them away. "Do not grieve, darling," he whispered, "it would make me more sad if I thought I had done any harm to you." "But you will come back?" said May, in a broken voice. John did not speak. He did not mean to come back, but he could not bear to see her distress. He kissed her again; he called her by every endearing name, and May put her hand in his and held it fast.