"Good-bye!" he says, taking her hand. Something in his expression makes her exclaim, anxiously: "For the present?" "No; forever. Herst and England have grown hateful to me. I leave them as soon as possible. Good-bye, my beloved!" he whispers, in deep agitation. "I only ask you not to quite forget me, though I hope--_I hope_--I shall never look upon your sweet face again." So he goes, leaving his heart behind him, carrying with him evermore, by land and sea, this only,--the vision of her he loves as last he sees her, weeping sad and bitter tears for him. * * * * * A quarter of an hour later, as Molly and Cecil are stepping into the carriage meant to convey them to the station, one of the servants, running up hurriedly, hands Miss Massereene a letter. "Another?" says Cecil, jestingly, as the carriage starts. "Sealed envelopes, like private bomb-shells, seem to be the order of the day. I do hope this one does not emanate from your grandfather, desiring you to refund everything." "It is from Tedcastle," says Molly, surprised. Then she opens it, and reads as follows: "Taking into consideration the enormous change that has occurred in your fortunes since this morning, I feel it only just to you and myself to write and absolve you from all ties by which you may fancy yourself still connected with me. You will remember that in our last conversation together in London you yourself voluntarily decided on severing our engagement. Let your decision now stand. Begin your new life without hampering regrets, without remorseful thoughts of me. To you I hope this money may bring happiness; to me, through you, it has brought lasting pain; and when, a few minutes ago, I said I congratulated you from my heart, I spoke falsely. I say this only to justify my last act in your eyes. I will not tell you what it costs me to write you this; you know me well enough to understand. I shall exchange with a friend of mine, and sail for India in a week or two, or at least as soon as I can; but wherever I am, or whatever further misfortunes may be in store for me, be assured your memory will always be my greatest--possibly my only--treasure." "What can he mean?" says Molly, looking up. She does not appear grieved; she is simply indignant. An angry crimson flames on her fair cheeks. "Quixotism!" says Cecil, when she, too, has read the letter. "Was there ever such a silly boy?" "Oh! it is worse than anything,--so cold, so terse, so stupid. And not an affectionate word all through, or a single regret." "My dear child, that is its only redeeming point. He is evidently sincere in his desire for martyrdom. Had he gone into heroics I should myself have gone to Ireland (where I suppose he soon must be) to chastise him. But as it is---- Poor Tedcastle! He looks upon it as a point of honor."