"That is enough," she said, very tenderly, and now the tears coursed down her own cheeks. "I will not ask again. I do not wish to know. You shall forget that I asked you. Come, dearest, kiss me. Think no more of this. Come, now." And she drew his head down to hers. Paul threw himself into a chair. His prostration was abject. "Come, dearest," said Greta, soothingly, "be a man." "There is worse to come," he said. "What matter," said Greta, and smiled. "I shall not fear if I have you beside me." "I can bear it no more," said Paul. "The thing is past cure." "No, dearest, it is not. Only death is that." "Greta, you said death would bind us closer together, but this thing draws us apart." "No, dearest, it does not. That it can not do." "Could nothing part us?" said Paul, lifting his face. "Nothing. Though the world divided us, yet we should be together." Again the loud sobs came from overhead. Paul rose to his feet, a shattered man no more. His abject mien fell from him like a garment. "Did I not say it was a lie?" he muttered, fiercely. "Greta, I am ashamed," he said; "your courage disgraces me. See what a pitiful coward you have taken for your husband. You have witnessed a strange weakness. But it has been for the last time. Thank God, I am now the man of yesterday!" Her tears were rolling down her cheeks, but her eyes were very bright. "What do you wish me to do?" she whispered. "Is it not something for me to do?" "It is, darling. You said rightly that the thought of one is the thought of both." "What is it?" "A terrible thing!" "No matter. I am here to do it. What?" "It is to part from me to-night--only for to-night--only until to-morrow." Greta's face broke into a perfect sunshine of beauty. "Is that all?" she asked. "My darling!" said Paul, and embraced her fervently and kissed the quivering lips, "I am leading you through dark vaults, where you can see no single step before you." "But I am holding your hand, my husband," Greta whispered. Speech was too weak for that great moment. Again the heart-breaking sobs fell on the silence. Then Paul drew a cloak over Greta's shoulders and buttoned up his ulster. "It is a little after midnight," he said with composure. "There is a fly at the door. We may catch the last train up to London. I have a nest for you there, my darling." Then he went out into the bar. "Landlady," he said, "I will come back to-morrow for our luggage. Meantime, let it lie here, if it won't be in your way. We've kept you up late, old lady. Here, take this--and thank you." "Thankee! and the boxes are quite safe, sir--thankee!" He threw open the door to the road, and hailed the driver of the fly, cheerily. "Cold, sleety night, my good fellow. You'll have a sharp drive." "Yes, sir; it air cold waiting, very, specially inside, sir, just for want of summat short." "Well, come in quick and get it, my lad." "Right, sir."