“I will come back some time, never fear,” said he, kindly. “I may be back in a couple of days, having been found in-competent for the Canadian work; or I may not be wanted to go out so soon as I now anticipate. Anyhow you don’t suppose I am going to forget you, Paul this work out there ought not to take me above two years, and, perhaps, after that, we may be employed together again.” Perhaps! I had very little hope. The same kind of happy days never returns. However, I did all I could in helping him: clothes, papers, books, instruments; how we pushed and struggled—how I stuffed. All was done in a much shorter time than we had calculated upon, when I had run down to the sheds to order the engine. I was going to drive him to Eltham. We sate ready for a summons. Holdsworth took up the little nosegay that he had brought away from the Hope Farm, and had laid on the mantel-piece on first coming into the room. He smelt at it, and caressed it with his lips. “What grieves me is that I did not know—that I have not said good-bye to—to them.” He spoke in a grave tone, the shadow of the coming separation falling upon him at last. “I will tell them,” said I. “I am sure they will be very sorry.” Then we were silent. “I never liked any family so much.” “I knew you would like them.” “How one’s thoughts change,—this morning I was full of a hope, Paul.” He paused, and then he said,— “You put that sketch in carefully?” “That outline of a head?” asked I. But I knew he meant an abortive sketch of Phillis, which had not been successful enough for him to complete it with shading or colouring. “Yes. What a sweet innocent face it is! and yet so—Oh, dear!” He sighed and got up, his hands in his pockets, to walk up and down the room in evident disturbance of mind. He suddenly stopped opposite to me. “You’ll tell them how it all was. Be sure and tell the good minister that I was so sorry not to wish him good-bye, and to thank him and his wife for all their kindness. As for Phillis,—please God in two years I’ll be back and tell her myself all in my heart.” “You love Phillis, then?” said I. “Love her! Yes, that I do. Who could help it, seeing her as I have done? Her character as unusual and rare as her beauty! God bless her! God keep her in her high tranquillity, her pure innocence.—Two years! It is a long time.—But she lives in such seclusion, almost like the sleeping beauty, Paul,”—(he was smiling now, though a minute before I had thought him on the verge of tears,)—“but I shall come back like a prince from Canada, and waken her to my love. I can’t help hoping that it won’t be difficult, eh, Paul?” This touch of coxcombry displeased me a little, and I made no answer. He went on, half apologetically,— “You see, the salary they offer me is large; and beside that, this experience will give me a name which will entitle me to expect a still larger in any future undertaking.” “That won’t influence Phillis.”