“I know you can't. It takes a little real love to go there with a poor girl like me. Ah, well, I'd have made you so happy. We are not poor emigrants. I have a horse for you to ride, and guns to shoot; and me and Dick would do all the work for you. But there are others here you can't leave for me. Well, then, good-by, dear. In Africa, or here, I shall always love you; and many a salt tear I shall shed for you yet, many a one I have, as well you know. God bless you. Pray for poor Phoebe, that goes against her will to Africa, and leaves her heart with thee.” This was too much even for the selfish Reginald. He kneeled at her knees, and took her hand, and kissed it, and actually shed a tear or two over it. She could not speak. He had no hope of changing her resolution; and presently he heard Dick's voice outside, so he got up to avoid him. “I'll come again in the morning, before you go.” “Oh, no! no!” she gasped. “Unless you want me to die at your feet. I am almost dead now.” Reginald slipped out by the kitchen. Dick came in, and found his sister leaning with her head back against the wall. “Why, Phoebe,” said he, “whatever is the matter?” and he took her by the shoulder. She moaned, and he felt her all limp and powerless. “What is it, lass? Whatever is the matter? Is it about going away?” She would not speak for a long time. When she did speak, it was to say something for which my male reader may not be prepared. But it will not surprise the women. “O Dick--forgive me!” “Why, what for?” “Forgive me, or else kill me: I don't care which.” “I do, though. There, I forgive you. Now what's your crime?” “I can't go. Forgive me!” “Can't go?” “I can't. Forgive me!” “I'm blessed if I don't believe that vagabond has been here tormenting of you again.” “Oh, don't miscall him. He is penitent. Yes, Dick, he has been here crying to me--and I can't leave him. I can't--I can't. Dear Dick! you are young and stout-hearted; take all the things over, and make your fortune out there, and leave your poor foolish sister behind. I should only fling myself into the salt sea if I left him now, and that would be peace to me, but a grief to thee.” “Lordsake, Phoebe, don't talk so. I can't go without you. And do but think, why, the horses are on board by now, and all the gear. It's my belief a good hiding is all you want, to bring you to your senses; but I han't the heart to give you one, worse luck. Blessed if I know what to say or do.” “I won't go!” cried Phoebe, turning violent all of a sudden. “No, not if I am dragged to the ship by the hair of my head. Forgive me!” And with that word she was a mouse again. “Eh, but women are kittle cattle to drive,” said poor Dick ruefully. And down he sat at a nonplus, and very unhappy. Phoebe sat opposite, sullen, heart-sick, wretched to the core; but determined not to leave Reginald. Then came an event that might have been foreseen, yet it took them both by surprise.