As he holds her closely in his young, strong, ardent embrace, a great peace--a joy that is almost pain--comes to her. Had she still any lingering doubts of her love for him, this moment, in which he stands by her as a guardian, a protector, a true lover, would forever dispel them. "You here," says Luttrell, addressing Philip with a frown, while his face flames, and then grows white as Shadwell's own, "and Miss Massereene in tears! Explain----" "Better leave explanation to another time," interrupts Philip, with insolent _hauteur_, his repentant mood having vanished with Luttrell's arrival, "and take Miss Massereene home. She is tired." So saying, he turns coolly on his heel, and walks away. Luttrell makes an angry movement as though to follow him; but Molly with her arms restrains him. "Do not leave me," she says, preparing to cry again directly if he shows any determination to have it out with Shadwell. "Stay with me. I feel so nervous and--and faint." "Do you, darling?" Regarding her anxiously. "You do look pale. What was Shadwell saying to you? Why were you crying? If I thought he----" "No, no,"--laying five hasty, convincing little fingers on his arm,--"nothing of the kind. Won't you believe me? He only reminded me of past days, and I was foolish, and--that was all." "But what brought him at all?" "To see me," says Molly, longing yet fearing to tell him of Philip's unpardonable behavior. "But do not let us talk of him. I cannot bear him. He makes me positively nervous. He is so dark, so vehement, so--uncanny!" "The fellow isn't much of a fellow, certainly," says Luttrell, with charming explicitness. For the mile that lies between them and home, they scarcely speak,--walking together, as children might, hand in hand, but in a silence unknown to our household pests. "How quiet you are!" Molly says, at length awakening to the fact of her lover's dumbness. "What are you thinking about?" "You, of course," he answers, with a rather joyless smile. "I have received my marching orders. I must join my regiment in Dublin next Saturday." "And this is Tuesday!" Aghast at the terrible news. "Oh, Teddy! Could they not have left us together for the few last days that remain to us?" "It appears they could not," replies he, with a prolonged and audible sigh. "I always said your colonel was a bear," says Miss Massereene, vindictively. "Well, but you see, he doesn't know how matters stand; he never heard of _you_," replies Luttrell, apologetically. "Well, he ought to know; and even if he did, he would do it all the more. Oh, Teddy! dear Teddy!"--with a sudden change of tone, thoroughly appreciated by one individual at least,--"what shall I do without you?" CHAPTER XXXI. "When we two parted in silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, to sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek, and cold, colder thy kiss." --Byron.