fully familiarised their minds with the idea of a new separation--which was hard, after having so long believed that Gervase’s American expedition was to be the last, and that their marriage was to follow immediately on his return. Though they were so superior in many respects, they were in others just like any other young couple suddenly checked in the midst of their hopes, and thrown back upon the indefinite. It was very hard, after settling to what enchanted places they were to go together hand in hand as soon as their wedding was over, to unclasp their hands and consent to part. For three months! Three months is not a very long time; but when once a parting has been made, who can tell when and how it is to end? Delays come in so easily, so inevitably, when there are thousands of miles of land and sea between two people who love each other. After they had freed themselves for a moment from the immediate burden in that little outburst about emancipation and Quashee, they sat and looked at each other again with wistful eyes. “Must it be, Gervase? Must it be?” “It seems so,” he said, clasping her hands. “Our last trial, Madeline.” “Oh, how can anybody tell if it will be our last trial? I thought so when you went to America, though that was no test or task, but only pleasure.” “If we parted bravely for nothing at all then,” he said,--“for there was no motive--and I can’t think why I went and left you, not being forced to do it,--we must try and part all the more bravely for a real motive now.” “Oh, I shall not break down; you need not fear for me. But it is hard, Gervase.” “The only comfort is, that when they have exacted this, there is nothing more for them to do.” “Oh, they’ll find something!” Madeline cried: and then her heart smote her for her father, who was always so kind. “Papa will always stand our friend,” she said. It was his turn now to shake his head. He did not think her father had been kind, any more than his own. They had laid their heads together; they had not cared for crushing the hearts of their children. Granting, as Gervase did, that it is only young hearts that can feel, the ingenuity of the fathers in tearing him from Madeline, in separating the two who ought to have been made one, had something in it wellnigh diabolical. He forgot that they had been sundered before at their own will and for pleasure merely, without any idea of duty. His American expedition had not pretended to any elevated motive. He had gone because he wanted to go, and Madeline had quietly encouraged him so to do; but there had been no suggestion of diabolical ingenuity or of tragical feeling. Now it was all different. The two fathers had laid their heads together. They had taken advantage of the younger pair. “Is it to be soon?” asked Madeline. “The sooner the better,” he replied. “The sooner I am gone, the sooner I shall be back again. Three months is not so very long after all. I shall be back soon after the New Year.”