"We must part. You do not know, perhaps you could not understand, how much it pains me to say so; and yet it must be. You are not happy yourself, and there is in the house a sense of unquietness, of strife, that cannot last any longer. But my chief reason for taking this determination concerns you wholly. You are not aware, my poor child, that the feeling you have been indulging is fast spoiling your originally good and generous nature. You are morally ill. I have done what I could to eradicate the disease, but it passed my power. There is but one cure-- absence. And now one last remark: you cannot change my resolve; spare me the pain of refusing that which I cannot and must not grant." I did spare him that pain. I lay in his arms mute and inanimate with grief. The blow had been inflicted by the hand I had trusted, and had reached me where I had always sought for refuge and consolation. I had been jealous, perverse; I had provoked and tormented him, but I had never thought he could have the heart to banish me. I believe Cornelius had expected not merely entreaties, but lamentations and tears; seeing me so quiet, he wondered. "Did you understand?" he asked. "Yes, Cornelius." "But what have you understood, child?" "That you will send me away somewhere." "Where?" "I don't care where, Cornelius." "I shall send you to school," he said. "To Miss Wood's?" I asked, naming a day-school close by. "To a boarding-school," he replied gravely. I felt that too, but all I said was-- "Then I shall only come home every Sunday." "My dear," he answered with evident embarrassment, "Kate and I should like it greatly; but would it be accomplishing the object in view?" So it was to be a complete, a total exile! I looked at him; I did not want to move him, to appeal to his compassion, but my glance wanted to ask his if this could be true. That silent questioning look appeared to trouble him involuntarily. "Shall Kate come and see me?" I asked after awhile. "Certainly." "And may I write to you, Cornelius?" "No doubt you may. What makes you ask?" "Because of course _you_ will not come." "Why not?" asked Cornelius, looking both surprised and hurt; "am I sending you away in anger? I am not, Daisy. I mean it as a cure,--painful perhaps, but short. I am to marry Miss Russell this summer. We will live next-door; you will be here with Kate. I trust that by that time good sense will have prevailed over exaggerated feelings; that you will learn to love and respect Miriam as my wife and the companion of my existence. This is the true reason of what you perhaps consider a very harsh measure--that your embittered feelings may have time and opportunity to soothe down in peace." I understood him. This was but the beginning of a life-long separation. Cornelius married, was lost to me. I felt it, but resistance was useless; I heard him apathetically. Thinking perhaps to rouse and interest me, he said--