“Then you _are_ hurt, then you _are_ angry with me. Then I have no influence over you.” “Cease, cease, Theresa. It is better, it is necessary—I must go for awhile, until I have weaned myself from this desperate feeling, until I shall have accustomed myself to think of you, to regard you as a sister only; until I shall have schooled myself so far as to be able to contemplate you without agony as not only not being mine—but being another’s.” “Would it—would it be agony to you, Durzil? Then mark me, I never, never will be another’s.” “Madness!” he answered, firmly; “madness and wickedness, too, Theresa. Neither man or woman were intended by the great Maker to be solitary beings. God forbid, if you cannot be mine, that I should be so selfish as to wish your life barren, and your heart loveless. No; love, Theresa, when you can, only love wisely; and the day shall come when it will add to my happiness to see and know you happy in the love of one whom you can love, and who shall love you as you must be loved. Never speak again as you did but now, Theresa. And now, dearest girl, I will leave you. Rest yourself awhile, and compose yourself, and then go if you will to your good father.” “Shall I—shall I tell him,” she faltered, “what has passed between us?” “As you will, as you judge best, Theresa. I am no advocate for concealment, still less for deceit—but here there is none of the latter, and to tell him this might grieve his kind spirit.” “You are wise—you are good. God bless you.” “And you, Theresa,” and he passed his arm calmly across her shoulder, and bending over, pressed his lips, calmly as a father’s kiss on her pure brow. “Fare you well.” “You are not going—going to leave us now?” “Not to-day—not to-day, Theresa.” “Nor to-morrow?” she said, beseechingly. “Nor to-morrow,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation, “but soon. Now compose yourself, my dear little girl. Farewell, and God bless you.” CHAPTER V. _The Parting._ Addio Teresa, Teresa addio. No pianger, bella, no pianger, no. Quando To ritorno Ti rivedro. After scenes of great excitement there ever follows a sort of listless languor; and, as in natural commotions the fiercest elemental strife is oftentimes succeeded by the stillest calms, so in the agitations of the human breast, the most tumultuous passions are followed frequently, if not invariably, by a sort of quiet which resembles, though it is not, indifference.