"You will not be so mad," said Villiers. "I go with a light heart, because I leave you in security and comfort. I will return--I need not protest--you know that I shall return the moment I can. I speak of a few days; it cannot be a week: let me go then, with what satisfaction I may, to the den of darkness and toil, and not be farther annoyed by the fear that you will not support my absence with cheerfulness. As you love me, wait for me with patience--remain with your aunt till I return." "I will stay for a week, if it must be so," replied Ethel. "Indeed, my love, it must--nor will I task you beyond--before a week is gone by, you shall see me." Ethel looked wistfully at him, but said no more. She thought it hard--she did not think it right that he should go--that he should toil and suffer without her; but she had no words for argument or contention, so she yielded. The next morning--a cold but cheerful morning--at seven o'clock, she drove over with him in Mrs. Fitzhenry's little pony chaise to the town, four miles off, through which the stages passed. A first parting is a kind of landmark in life--a starting post whence we begin our career out of illusion and the land of dreams, into reality and endurance. They arrived not a moment too soon: she had yet a thousand things to say--one or two very particular things, which she had reserved for the last moment; there was no time, and she was forced to concentrate all her injunctions into one word, "Write!" "Every day--and do you." "It will be my only pleasure," replied his wife. "Take care of yourself." He was on the top of the stage and gone; and Ethel felt that a blank loneliness had swallowed up the dearest joy of her life. She drew her cloak round her--she gazed along the road--there were no traces of him--she gave herself up to thought, and as he was the object of all her thoughts, this was her best consolation. She reviewed the happy days they had spent together--she dwelt on the memory of his unalterable affection and endearing kindness, and then tears rushed into her eyes. "Will any ill ever befall him?" she thought. "O no, none ever can! he must be rewarded for his goodness and his love. How dear he ought to be to me! Did he not take the poor friendless girl from solitude and grief; and disdaining neither her poverty nor her orphan state, give her himself, his care, his affection? O, my Edward! what would Ethel have been without you? Her father was gone--her mother repulsed her--she was alone in the wide world, till you generously made her your own!"