"What do I say to, emigrating to New Zealand?" she repeated, in a queer, choked voice, "to living in a back block, and—doing the washing?" Then, in a totally different key. "Of course, I'd be happy—anywhere with _you_, Phil, in 'No Man's Land' or Timbuctoo—your offer is like yourself—it reminds me of the time you sold your watch to help Billy out of a hole. But this hole is too big—ten thousand would be a mere drop in the ocean. Philip," she continued, as she rose and came towards him, "it is no use trying to play hide-and-seek with fate. My fate is to redeem my father's name. You are the man I love—Mr. Waldershare is the man I shall marry. Can't you see it with my eyes? You know our home—you are one of _us_—don't make it harder for me. I must go my own way." "And I am to go to the devil," he said hoarsely. "Oh, don't talk like that," she remonstrated; "it is not like you——" "I don't know what I'm like—or where I am to-day. In one blow I lose everything." "How?" she inquired. "You were everything to me." "And in future I must be nothing but a memory. Mr. Waldershare has had a hint—a girl told him—of our boy and girl attachment. He is desperately in love." "So am I," cried her companion. "Desperately jealous." "So am I," he reiterated. "I may never see you or write to you again, Phil; it will be the best," she urged piteously, and never had she looked so lovely. "It is terrible for you—it is ten times worse for me. Some day you will be sorry for me—not now, you are too sorry for yourself." She was alarmingly pale and nervous, her eyes wandered anxiously to the clock; nothing that Philip could urge would shake her from her purpose. She remained as white and as immovable as marble; her decision was irrevocable—the step was irretrievable. She was sacrificing herself for others, and "it"—the announcement of the engagement—was already in the papers.