"Of course you know best what you wish," he said hesitatingly. She placed the freshly arranged music with an air of decision on the piano. "I know very well what I wish, thank you," she said. There was another silence. "Is that all?" he asked her. "Quite all. Except"--she turned round upon him and showed him that the dark skin of her face had whitened, that her eyes were hurt and angry--"except that Alick has to go next week. I suppose I ought to give a term's notice; but also, if I don't, I suppose they'll do without it--I shall be ready to go with him. We shall be busy till we start. I may not see you to speak to again--this will be our good-bye." "Is that so?" he said. She could hardly believe her ears; she held her breath in the cruelty of the surprise, and set her teeth to help her to bear the pain. "Ours has been a long friendship," she said, striving to steady her voice. "Two years--seeing each other every day. Strange, isn't it, how things come to an end?" "Except some things which are endless," he said. She took heart of grace at that. "You mean Faith?" she asked; "Love?" She looked at him eagerly. "I mean Pain," he corrected her, and held out his hand. She would not put hers within it. "If, after these long two years, you can go like that, your friendship is not what I thought it. It is not worth a hand-clasp. Good-bye," she said, and turned her back upon him, not deigning to watch him go. * * * * * "Do you go or stay?" her brother asked, when he came in from the bank that afternoon. "I--go!" she said, but not with her usual bright promptness; and, looking at her face across their little tea-table, he saw that it had lost something of its usual serenity. "Seen Kilbourne?" he asked. She told him yes, with an air of careful unconcern; that he had come in that morning; that she had told him of their contemplated departure, and had said good-bye to him. "I used to think----" the brother began, but she cut him short. "I know. You often said so; don't say it any more," she said. "All that was a mistake--and absurd." "You know what they are saying of him, Kate? They are saying he killed his wife." Her dark face whitened, her dark eyes opened wide. "They cannot!" "They do. They say he couldn't look such a miserable, hangdog wretch for nothing. The worst is, the boys at the college have got hold of it. One of the little wretches wrote up on the white wall of his class-room the other day, 'Who killed his wife?' Bryant, the science master, told me Kilbourne took no notice, but his face was sea-green for the rest of the morning." "He should have thrashed the whole class--thrashed them within an inch of their lives!" "Well, he didn't. He did nothing." Alick dropped his voice. "Bryant told me he looked as if he were afraid," he said. "What beasts people are to say such things!" she burst out. "And of such a man! The gentlest, the kindest----"