He said no more. He had, indeed, cherished little hope; but the agony of this utter despair was none the less acute. M. de Bergerac compassionated this natural sorrow, and was conscious that he was in some wise to blame for having brought the two young people together. “If she, too, should suffer!” he thought. “I have seen her interest in this young man--her regret when he left us. Great heaven! how am I to choose wisely for the child I love so well?” He looked to the window of the room where Harold Jerningham and Helen sat together in the dim light of two candles. The man’s patrician face and the girl’s fresh young beauty made a charming picture. M. de Bergerac had no sense of incongruity in the union of these two. The accomplishments and graces of middle age harmonized well with the innocent beauty of youth, and it seemed to him a fitting thing that these two should marry. “Not for worlds would I sacrifice her to a father’s ambition,” he said to himself; “but to see her mistress of Greenlands, to know that her life would be sheltered from all the storms of fate, would comfort me in the hour of parting.” Eustace bade his patron good-night presently, making some lame excuse for not returning to the sitting-room. In vain did the kindly Frenchman essay to comfort him in this bitter hour. “I thank you a thousand times for your goodness to me on this and every other occasion,” the young man said, as they shook hands. “Believe me, I am grateful. I shall be proud and happy to go on working for you in London, if you will allow me; but I cannot return to Greenlands--I cannot see your daughter again.” “No, it is better not. Ah, if you only knew how short-lived these sorrows are!” “I cannot believe that mine will be short-lived. But I do not want to complain. Once more, good night, and God bless you! I shall leave this place at daybreak to-morrow.” “And when shall you return to London?” “That will rest with my uncle. I will write to you at Greenlands directly I do return. Good night, sir.” “Good night, and God bless you!” Thus they parted. Eustace did not go back to the house immediately, but wandered out into the little town, and thence to the open country, where he indulged his grief in solitude. It was late when he went back to the inn, and made his way stealthily to the humble garret-chamber which had been allotted to him. Here he lay, sleepless, till the cock’s hoarse crow blent shrilly with the thunderous roll of the waves. At the first faint streak of daylight he rose, dressed, and went softly down stairs, where he found a bare-footed servant-girl opening the doors of the house. By one of these open doors he departed unobserved, while the bare-footed damsel was sweeping in some mysterious locality which she called “Ben.” The morning was dull and drizzling; but what recks despair of such small inconveniences? The young man set out on his lonely walk, breakfastless and hopeless, scarce knowing where his steps led him.