She could not answer him. Every word went through her tender heart like a stab. What avail were her love and pity? Never should she be able to comfort him again; never would her sweet sisterly ministrations suffice for him. She must not linger by his side; her eyes were open now. 'Good-bye, Roy,' she faltered. She hardly knew what she meant by that farewell. Was she going to leave him? Was she only saying good-bye to the past, to girlhood, to all manner of fond foolish dreams? She rose with dry eyes when she had uttered that little speech, while he lay watching her. 'Do you mean to leave me?' he asked, sorrowfully, but not disputing her decision. 'Perhaps--yes--what does it matter?' she answered, moving drearily away. What did it matter indeed? Her fate and his were sealed. Between them stretched a gulf, long as life, impassable as death; and even her innocent love might not span it. 'I shall not go to him, and he will not return to me,' she said, paraphrasing the words of the royal mourner to harmonise with her measure of pain. 'Never while I live shall I have my brother Roy again.' Poor little aching, childish heart, dealing for the first time with life's mysteries, comprehending now the relative distinction between love and gratitude, and standing with reluctant feet on the edge of an unalterable resolve. What sorrow in after years ever equalled this blank? When Mildred returned she found a very desolate scene awaiting her; the fire had burnt low, a waste of dull red embers filled the grate, the moon shone through the one uncurtained window; a mass of drapery stirred at her entrance, a yawning figure stretched itself under the oriental quilt. 'Roy, were you asleep? The fire is nearly out. Where is Polly? 'I do not know. She left the room just now,' he returned, with a sleepy inflection; but to Mildred's delicate perception it did not ring true. She said nothing, however, raked the embers together, threw on some wood, and lighted the lamps. Had he really slept? There was no need to ask the question; his burning hand, the feverish light of his eyes, the compressed lips, the baffled and tortured lines of the brow, told her another story; she leant over him, pressing them out with soft fingers. 'Rex, my poor boy!' 'Aunt Milly, she has bidden me good-bye,' broke out the lad suddenly; 'she knows, and she is going back to Heriot; and I--I am the most miserable wretch alive.' CHAPTER XXXI 'WHICH SHALL IT BE?' 'She looked again, as one that half afraid Would fain be certain of a doubtful thing; Or one beseeching, "Do not me upbraid!" And then she trembled like the fluttering Of timid little birds, and silent stood.' Jean Ingelow. Dr. Heriot started for London the day after he had received Mildred's letter; as he intended, his appearance took them all by surprise.