"I am selfish enough to hope that you will miss me for a time, at least. I shall not then be so soon forgotten. We have had some pleasant days and weeks together, have we not?" "I have enjoyed them, assuredly." She was a little pale, Philip thought, but that might be the effect of fatigue. Her cheek was seldom blooming, unless when flushed in animated speech, or by brisk exercise. She spoke of his going with politeness, that seemed scarce one remove from carelessness; and, man-like, his pleasure at the thought that their association in the country house had not been followed by the results Aunt Sarah wished and predicted, gave way to a feeling of wounded vanity and vexation, that his summer's companion could relinquish him so easily. While he repeated to himself his congratulations that his friendly and gallant attentions had not been misconstrued, had not awakened any inconvenient because futile "expectations," he wondered if it were a possibility for a girl of so much sense and feeling, such genuine appreciation of his talents and tastes, to know him well--even intimately--without experiencing a warmer sentiment than mere approval of an agreeable associate's mind and manners, and Platonic liking for him on these accounts. With the respectful familiarity of a privileged acquaintance, he drew her hand within his arm as they arose at the conclusion of the collation. "We have yet two hours and more to spend here, before we set out for home. We can have one more walk and talk together." They took but one turn on the beach, and returning to their morning's seat beside the half-buried keel tried to talk as they had done then. It was hard work, even to the man of the world, the heart-free student of human nature. Gradually the conversation languished and died away, and for awhile both sat silent, looking out upon the sea. Then Philip's gaze came back to his companion--stealthily at first, and, as she remained unconscious of his scrutiny, it lingered long and searchingly upon features, form and attire. There were white, tight lines about her mouth, and a slight knitting of the brow, that imparted a care-worn look to the young face it pained him to see. Her hands were clasped upon her knee, and the fingers were bloodless where they interlaced one another. Was she suffering? Was the threatened parting the cause of her disquiet? If this were so, what was his duty as a man of honor--of common humanity? And if he were forced to admit that he held her happiness in his power, and to accept the consequences that must ensue from his idle gallantry and her mistaken reading of the same, was the thought really repulsive? Would it be a total sacrifice of feeling to a sense of right? It was a repetition, grave and careful, of the revery of that July night two weeks ago.