While he was leading his men on to the boat, Britomarte and Erminie returned to the carriage, where they sat watching until the few remaining companies embarked, and the boat got up her steam, and steamed away from the wharf. Even then they continued to watch the boat as long as she remained in sight. And finally they gave the order to drive back to the parsonage. When they arrived, Erminie tried to persuade Britomarte to alight and go in; but in vain. Miss Conyers felt that she needed the solitude of her own chamber. “Go in, dear Erminie. Elfie and her father will cheer you up this evening. To-morrow I will come to you,” she said, embracing her friend, and then drawing her veil over her face and turning her steps homeward. Britomarte reached her boarding-house and opened the front door, which admitted her immediately into the neat little parlor where the landlady and her daughters were seated at tea. Mrs. Burton arose in a little bustle to get another cup and saucer, and saying, apologetically: “We waited an hour for you, Miss Conyers, and then we concluded that you were spending the evening with your friends, and so we thought we would have our tea. But I will make some fresh for you in a moment.” “No—pray do not disturb yourself. I can not take anything just now. By and by, may be, I may come down and make a cup for myself,” said Britomarte, passing hastily through the parlor to the back room, from which the stairs ascended to her own chamber. Arrived there, she bolted herself in, threw off her bonnet and shawl, and dropped down upon her bed, in a collapse of all her enthusiasm, and wept bitterly. For nearly three years she had been the constant companion of Justin, under circumstances that threw them entirely upon each other for mutual comfort and support; and the love that had first been inspired by his high personal excellence was now confirmed by habit. Since they had returned to their native country, and mingled freely with their fellow-creatures, each little event that had come between herself and her lover, to part them even for a day, had been felt like the stroke of a cleaving sword dividing her bosom. Even the first little parting in the city, when she went temporarily to a hotel, and he went to his home, a few streets off, was a sharp pain, although she knew that she would see him every day. The second parting, when he enlisted, and went over to his fort on the south side of the river, was a much sharper pain, for she knew that she should see him only every week at oftenest. But now this parting was insupportable agony, for she felt that she might not see him for years, if indeed she should ever see him again. Moaning and weeping in her anguish and despair, she now realized how utterly her soul had passed into the soul of her lover, so that she lived only in his life.