“Oh, Phil, you misunderstood me! I did not taunt you. I only told you that girls would rather their lovers had some occupation. It was not a taunt at all. Forgive me, Phil. I am so sorry—oh, so sorry for this morning’s work, when I meant to be so happy!” Phil had risen to his feet, and she had risen, too, and stood looking up at him with an expression which, if it was not born of love, was near of kin to it, and nearly maddened Phil. “Queenie,” he began, laying his hands upon her shoulders and looking fixedly into her eyes, “do you mean to send me away with no word of hope?—mean that you cannot be my wife?” “Yes, Phil; I mean it. I can never be your wife; because I am your cousin, and because I do not love you in that way,” she said. And Phil knew she meant it, and was conscious of a death-like sickness stealing over and mastering him, and making him sit down again upon the rock, while every thing grew dark around him, and Queenie’s voice seemed a long way off, as she spoke to him in affrighted tones, and asked if he were fainting. He did not faint, though it was some minutes before he was himself again and arose to say good-by. There was no question of lunch, no thought of broiled chicken and pop-overs, for both were past caring for such things now, and only remembered that in some sense, this good-by was forever. She thought he would, of course, come to Hetherton Place again—to-morrow, perhaps—but not as he had come heretofore; not as in the old happy days; not as the Phil with whom she could play and coquette, but more as a stranger; more like Mr. Beresford before he troubled her with his tale of love. He knew he should not come again to-morrow, nor for many, many to-morrows—never, perhaps; for there was danger in that far-off eastern land to which he now meant to go. Possibly his grave was there waiting for him, or he might tarry years and years, until the bright, beautiful girl standing before him had grown old and gray with the cares of life. And so, to him, it was good-by forever; but he would not tell her so. He would wait and write his farewell. But he must kiss her once, for the sake of all she had been to him, and that he had hoped she would be. He was a tall young man of six feet and she a wee little girl, whom he could take in his arms as he would a child; and he took her in his arms, and kissed her forehead and lips, and said to her: “Remember, Queenie, whatever comes, my love for you will remain unchanged; for it was not the love of a day or a year, but love till death, and after, too, if such a thing can be. Good-by! I’m going now.” And he went swiftly from her, while she watched him with a throbbing heart; and neither of them guessed just where or how they would meet again. CHAPTER XXVI. PHIL GOES AWAY. Mr. Beresford was alone in his office when Phil came in after his return from Hetherton Place, and asked, abruptly: