“Honor! for God’s sake don’t--don’t--I implore you! I cannot bear this. I would go through all I have struggled with over again to save you one tear. Circumstances--destiny--or whatever they call it--is too strong for us. You must not let me spoil your life. You know I shall love you--you only as long as I draw breath.” “I know that!” raising her wet eyes to his. “And you _dare_ to talk to me of a good time, of marrying my second love! Oh, Mark, Mark! how could you?” “I was a brute to say it. I thought it would make it easier for you--when----” and his voice broke--“sometimes--when--you think of me----” “Which will be every day--and often. And now I must be going. I was already late enough when Tommy ran away. I was afraid of his meeting poor Ben’s fate. Will you come with me as far as the brow of the hill, where our paths part?” “Yes--part for ever!” he added to himself. As they turned, she asked him many questions concerning his life, his associates, and his occupations. He on his side made the best of everything, painting the Yellow Bungalow, the gardens, the planters and missionaries with gorgeous colours. “And are there no white women near you?” she inquired. “Have you never met one lady to speak to since you left Shirani?” “Yes, I have one acquaintance, and one who is a friend of yours. She is a Persian, I believe. Your little cornelian ring has been a strong link between us. She is a most mysterious person. No one can tell who she is, or where she came from. All we know is, that she spends her present time in doing good, nursing the sick and dying. She told me that you knew the history of her life--you alone----” “It is true,” bending her head as she spoke, and fixing her eyes on the ground. “She shrinks from all observation, but she does not hide from _me_--for your sake; we talk about you constantly, I may say always.” “Then give her a message from me, please. Tell her that I often think of her, and ask her if I may write to her, or if she will write to me?” “You forget that she is a Persian. How can she possibly write to you?” Honor coloured painfully, and twisted her ring round and round before she spoke, and then she said-- “Please give her the message all the same. I--I--can manage to get her letter read. _I_ will understand it.” They were now at the point where their roads diverged--his went along the hill, hers led down into the valley. She stopped for a moment, and caressed the grey pony’s sleek hard neck; then she turned and gave the pony’s master both her hands. They gazed at one another, with sad white faces, reading their life’s tragedy in each other’s eyes. Then she suddenly tore her fingers from his clasp, and ran down the hill with Tommy in pursuit. Jervis stood where she had left him, until the very last echo of her footsteps had died away.