“I should starve, too,” she said sadly; “are you altogether oblivious of that fact, Alfred?” “If you choose to do so it is your own business, and no reason why I should. I have friends who will receive me, and I shall go to them.” “Would they not extend a helping hand to us both?” “No,” he said doggedly. “They cannot love you as I do,” she pleaded. “I cannot help that. I shall go to them.” “I give you all I have.” “I want more—more than you give me now,” he answered; “and if you don’t give it me, I shall not stay here. You had better go to London to-morrow, and look for some money. My uncle will let you have some if you are persistent.” “I think I will go to-day,” she said, with an odd tone in her voice. “I should be in time for the twelve o’clock train.” “You will go to-morrow,” he replied decisively. “Very well, my love”—and she winked quickly to herself. “I will go to-morrow.” “Unless you bring back some money, I shall not stay here any longer. You must clearly understand that, Anne. I am tired of this business,” he said, in his hard, determined voice. “It’s not worse for you than it is for me, Alfred. I can bear it with you; cannot you bear it with me?” He looked at her—at her black dress, her white handkerchief, at the poverty-stricken age of which she seemed to be the symbol; and he shuddered perceptibly as he turned away and answered, “No, I cannot, and I want to go.” “Alfred!” she said, with a cry of pain, and going to his side she put her hand on his arm; but he shook her off, and went a step farther away. “Stay there,” he said sternly. “Why do you recoil from me?” she asked; “am I so distasteful to you?” But he only shuddered again, and looked at her with almost terror in his eyes, as though he dumbly loathed her. “Have I forfeited your love, Alfred?” she asked humbly. “I dislike being touched.” “You will break my heart,” she cried, with a dry sob in her throat. “My dear one, I have given you all—all I possess; I have braved everything for you. Has all your love for me gone?” “I don’t want to talk sentiment,” he said, drawing back still a little farther from her, as though he shrank from being within her reach. “Do you remember that night when we walked along the road by the fir-trees, and you told me you would always love me and take care of me? What have I done to make you change? I never cease thinking of you, day or night, but it is months since you gave me a loving word. What have I done to change you so?” He looked down at her; for a moment there was an expression of hatred on his face. “You are old—and I am young.” “My heart is young,” she said piteously. Still he was merciless. “It is your face I see,” he said, “not your heart.”