"Oh, if I had known we were going to part, how differently I should have spent this evening! I would not have talked away so foolishly, but have asked you so many questions--settled so many things! whereas now I have only a few minutes, and can think of nothing save that you are going away, Cornelius." He quailed, but only momentarily; if his lip trembled a little, his unmoved look told of unconquerable resolve. "You, it seems," I resumed, "had nothing to say to me, Cornelius, or you could not have wished to go away thus?" He drew forth his watch, and said, briefly: "I must go soon, Daisy." "Kate says you are to be years away--is it true?" His silence was equivalent to an assent. "Well then, give me the farewell of years," I said, passing my arms around his neck, and compelling his face to look down at mine. He seemed a little troubled, and made a motion to rise. I detained him. "A little longer," I entreated; "I have thought of some things about which I wish to question you." "Pray be quick, Daisy." "Why do you go to Spain?" "For change." "You are tired of us?" "I am tired of a quiet life." "Go to France, Cornelius." "Why so?" "It is nearer." "Daisy, I must really go now." "A little longer; I have something else to say." "What is it?" "I have forgotten; but give me time to remember." I laid my head on his shoulder as I spoke. "Daisy," he asked, "what have you to say?" I wept without answering; but saw his eye vainly looking over the table in search of something. "I have it," I said aloud, "I have it, and I will not give it to you, Cornelius, for you must not, no, you must not go." "I knew it," he resignedly exclaimed, "I knew it would come to this; and yet," he added, looking down at me rather wistfully, "it is of no use, Daisy; I must go, and I will go too." "No, Cornelius, you will not; you never could have the heart to do it. Besides, why go?" "For change." "Change! what is change? If I were an artist I would make variety enough in my own mind to be the charm of daily life; and whilst I painted pictures, I would not care a pin for Spain or Italy. If I were an ambitious spirit, I would not go just when my fame was beginning, when glorious prospects were opening before me. If I were a brother, and had a good sister, who loved me dearly, I would not forsake her. If I were a kind-hearted man, and had adopted a poor little orphan girl, reared her, indulged her, made her my friend, and promised not to leave her, I would not break her heart by running away from her; but when she said to me: 'Stay, Cornelius!' I would just give her a kiss, and say: 'Yes, my pet, by all means!'"