They have wandered down once more by the river-side where first he told her how he loved her. To-night, again the moon is shining brightly, again the stream runs rippling by, but not, as then, with a joyous love-song; now it sounds sad as death, and "wild with all regret," as though mourning for the flowers--the sweet fond forget-me-nots--that used to grace its banks. Their hands are clasped, his arm is round her; her head drooping, dejected (unlike the gay capricious Molly of a few months back), is leaning on his breast. Large tears are falling silently, without a sob, down her white cheeks, because to-night they say their last farewell. It is one of those bitter partings, such as "press the life from out young hearts" and makes them doubt the good that this world conceals even in the very core of its disappointments. "I feel as though I were losing all," says Molly, in a despairing tone. "First John, and now--you. Oh, how difficult a thing is life! how hard, how cruel!" Yet only a month before she was singing its praises with all the self-confidence of foolish ignorant youth. "While I am alive you do not lose me," he answers, pressing his lips to her soft hair and brow. "But I am unhappy about you, my own: at the risk of letting you think me importunate, I would ask you again to reconsider your decision, and let me know how it is you propose fighting this cold world." Unable to refuse him audibly, and still determined to adhere to her resolution to let nothing interfere with her self-imposed task, she maintains a painful silence, merely turning her head from side to side upon his chest uneasily. "You still refuse me? Do you not think, Molly,"--reproachfully,--"your conduct toward me is a little cold and unfeeling?" "No, no. Do not misjudge me: indeed I am acting for the best. See,"--placing two bare white arms around his neck, that gleam with snowy softness in the moonlight against the mournful draperies that fall away from them,--"if I were cold and unfeeling would I do this?" pressing her tender lips to his. "Would I? You know I would not. I am a coward too, and fear you would not look upon my plan as favorably as I do. Darling, forgive and trust me." "Are you going on the stage?" asks he, after a pause, and with evident hesitation. "Why?" with a forlorn little smile. "If I were, would you renounce me?" "Need I answer that? But you are so young, so pretty,--I am afraid, my darling, it--it would be unpleasant for you." "Be satisfied: I am not thinking of the stage. But do not question me, Teddy. I shall write to you, as I have promised, in six months,--if I succeed." "And if you fail?" "I suppose then--I shall write to you too," she answers, with a sigh and a faint smile. "But I shall not fail. After all, success will bring me no nearer to you: I shall always have the children to provide for," she says, despondingly. "We can at least live and hope."