The words were like the knell of doom to him; but she needed him. If she could relieve her heart of something of its burden, health might return and her life be saved. Was not his duty clear? “And _never_ anything more?” was his last appeal, as he held her hot, trembling hands and looked into her glittering eyes. “And never anything more,” she repeated, after him. “It _cannot_ be—_will_ you not believe it?” and he knew that so it _must_ be. Back, back into his aching, almost bursting heart he crushed his great love, with every rebellious thought, and all the hopes that had begun to bud anew. He would do _anything_ so that she need not die; he would “trample upon every tendril of affection reaching out after her,” as she had said regarding her love for Earle, and become only the true and faithful friend, if by so doing he could comfort and perchance save her. Something of the struggle that this resolve cost him could be traced in the pale but resolute face, and in his quivering lips. “Editha,” he said, solemnly, as if recording a vow, and still clasping those small hands, “it shall be as you wish; I will never utter another word of love to you; I will be your steadfast friend.” “Oh, thank you!” and, like a weary, grieved child who has restrained its sobs until it could reach the safe and tender shelter of its mother’s arms, she dropped her head upon his shoulder and burst into nervous weeping. He did not move, he did not speak one word to stay her tears, for he knew that they were like the refreshing rain upon the parched and sun-baked earth, and she would be lighter of heart and freer from pain for their flow. But who shall describe the feelings of his own tried heart as he knelt there with that golden head resting so near it, and from which, for her sake, he had resolved to crush relentlessly every hope for the future? CHAPTER XXXVI A NEW CHARACTER From that day Paul Tressalia put every thought of self aside, and devoted himself in delicate, tireless efforts to interest and amuse the frail girl who had such entire confidence and faith in him. His own heart would have prompted him to go away from all sight and sound of her, but he had promised that he would be her “steadfast friend.” There was no particular necessity of his returning to England at present, and, if he could do this unhappy girl any good, he resolved to stay and comfort her until she should need him no longer. Little by little he drew her away from her own sad thoughts—at least during the day; he could not, of course, know how she spent her nights, whether in refreshing sleep or in sad and morbid brooding.