When, the next day, I sought William Edgerton himself, and declared my novel determination, he turned pale as death. I could see that his lips quivered. I watched him closely. He was evidently racked by an emotion which was more obvious from the necessity he was under of suppressing it. With considerable difficulty he ventured to ask my reasons for this strange step, and with averted countenance repeated those which his father had proffered against my doing so. I could see that he fain would have urged his suggestions more vehemently if he dared. But the conviction that his wishes were the fathers to his arguments was conclusive to render him careful that his expostulations should not put on a show of earnestness. I must do William Edgerton the justice to say that guilt was not his familiar. He could not play the part of the practised hypocrite. He had no powers of artifice. He could not wear the flowers upon his breast, having the volcano within it. Professionally, he could be no roué. He could seem no other than he was. Conscious of guilt, which he had not the moral strength to counteract and overthrow, he had not, at the same time, the art necessary for its concealment. He could use no smooth, subtle blandishments. His cheek and eye would tell the story of his mind, though it strove to make a false presentment. I do him the further justice to believe that a great part of his misery arose from this consciousness of his doing wrong, rather than from the difficulties in the way of his success. I believe that, even were he successful in the prosecution of his illicit purposes, he would not have looked or felt a jot less miserable. I felt, while we conferred together, that my departure was perhaps the best measure for his relief. While I mused upon his character and condition, my anger yielded in part to commiseration. I remembered the morning-time of our boyhood--when we stood up for conflict with our young enemies, side by side--obeyed the same rallying-cry, recognised the same objects, and were a sort of David and Jonathan to one another. Those days!--they soothed and softened me while I recalled them. My tone became less keen, my language less tinctured with sarcasm, when I thought of these things; and I thought of our separation without thinking of its cause. “I leave you, Edgerton, with one regret--not that we part, for life is full of partings, and the strong mind must be reconciled with them, or it is nothing--but that I leave you so unlike your former self. I wish I could do something for you.” I gave him my hand as as I spoke. He did not grasp--he rather shrunk from it. An uncontrollable burst of feeling seemed suddenly to gush from him as he spoke:-- “Take no heed of me, Clifford--I am not worthy of YOUR thought.” “Ha! What do you mean?” He spoke hastily, in manifest discomfiture:-- “I am worthy of no man's thought.” “Pshaw! you are a hypochondriac.” “Would it were that!--But you go!--when?” “In a week, perhaps.”