All this he thought over as she lay there in the abandonment of her grief, and he knew that she had judged rightly; they must be separated, or their sorrow would wear them both out in a little while. He must go back to Wycliffe and take up his duties there, and she must choose for herself what she would do here. Her sobs grew less violent after awhile, and at last he said, with an effort to speak calmly: “Editha, I will do whatever you say; but it seems to me as if all the world from this hour will be palled in deepest gloom—as if nothing could ever look bright or beautiful again. I came back to you so joyous—so proud of the position that was mine to offer you; and now every hope is crushed. Oh, what shall we do? How are we to bear it?” he groaned. “You must go away—back to England,” she said, in a shaking, weakened voice. “I cannot bear it if you stay here; neither can I go to Wycliffe. Don’t you see we could not bear _that_? We must live apart, and strive to forget if we can. Perhaps when long years have passed, if we live, and we have not seen each other, we may be able to love each other less.” “God forbid! And yet the sin of it will crush me,” he cried, despairingly. “I cannot forget—I do not want to forget—I will _not_. Oh, Editha, why are we permitted to be tortured thus?” “To teach us, perhaps, that earthly idols are but dust, and God is supreme. He has said we must put no other in _His_ place,” she whispered, with a solemnity that awed him. “Have _you_ loved _me_ like that?” he asked. “Hush!” she answered, with a shiver, and laying her fingers gently on his lips. “I must not tell you _how much_. We have no right to talk of that any more. I want you to bid me good-by now, Earle, and let it be a long, long good-by, too.” “My darling, I _cannot_; it is too, too cruel,” he moaned; and, forgetting everything but his deep and mighty love for her, he gathered her into his arms and clasped her with such rebellious strength that she was powerless in his embrace. “Earle,” she said, with a calmness born of despair, yet speaking authoritatively, “you must let me go.” He instantly released her—he could not disobey her when she spoke in that tone, but the look on his face made her cry out with pain. “Forgive me,” she almost sobbed. “I would not wound you, but we must end this for the sake of both. Will you do as I wish? Will you go back to Wycliffe at once?” “I will do anything that you bid me, Editha,” he answered, in a hollow tone, but with a look such as she hoped never to see again on any mortal face. “Thank you, Earle—I do bid you go—it is right—it will be best, and—and——” She had risen, and was standing before him, looking almost as wan and ghastly as she had looked on that night when he had found her in the power of Tom Drake.