"Have you forgotten your manners?" I cry, playfully. "Will you not conduct me downstairs? Give me your arm, 'Duke." "Your spirits are very high to-night, are they not?" he says, smiling. "I am glad to see you so like your old self, as now I can with a clear conscience leave home." "Are you leaving?" "Yes. You know I promised myself to go abroad in the autumn. I will arrange with Billy or your mother to stay with you while I am away." "If you are going, well and good," I return, quietly, "but do not arrange matters for me. I will have no one to stay with me in your absence." "What! not even Billy?" "Not even Billy," I say firmly. --- We get through dinner almost without a comment. My sudden overflow of geniality has entirely forsaken me. I am as mute, as depressed, as in those first days at Hazelton. Rising from the table as soon as custom will permit me I make my way to the drawing-room, where I sit in moody discontent. I am wretched--most miserable; doubly so in that I can see no plan of escape from my troubles lying clear before me. I rest my aching head on my hands and try to think; bit always his saddened face and averted eyes are to be seen. We are so close, yet so divided. Only a wall or two, a door, a passage, but miles might be said to separate us, so far apart are we in sympathy. At this moment I know he is sitting in the library, silent, companionless. And then a great desire rises within me. Throwing aside my book, with a nervous determination, I walk down the drawing-room, through the door, across the hall, never pausing until I find myself before the library door. I knock hurriedly, lest by any chance my ebbing courage should entirely evaporate; and my heart almost dies within me, as the well-known voice calls out, "Come in." I open, and advance a few steps into the room. A slight fire is burning in the grate it is the beginning of September, and already the evenings show symptoms of coming cold; Marmaduke is seated at the table, busily engaged, with writing materials all around him. "What is it, Phyllis?" he asks, expectantly, the pen still in his hand. "Oh, nothing," I return, awkwardly, failing miserably as I come to the point; "nothing to signify; another time will do. You are busy now. What are you writing, 'Duke?" "I was drawing out my will," he replies, smiling. "I thought it better to do so before leaving home for--for an indefinite time. No one knows what may happen. I am glad you have come in just now, as you may as well hear what I have written and see if you wish anything altered. Now listen." "I will not!" I cry petulantly. "I hate wills and testaments, and all that kind of thing. I won't listen to a word of it; and--and I hope with all my heart _I_ shall die before you." "My dear Phyllis," then quickly, "you are excited; you have something on your mind. What did you come to me for just now, Phyllis? tell me."