“No, never! You have been a good friend to me, and as such I value you highly, and I had hoped that you would always remain so. But I see that it cannot be. It will perhaps be best for you henceforth not to see me, at least not until--pardon the expression--you have outlived this generous folly. And now, you know, you will need me no more. You have made a splendid reputation, and if you choose to avail yourself of it, your fortune is already made. I shall always rejoice to hear of your success, and--and if you should ever need a FRIEND, you must come to no one but me. I know that these are feeble words, Mr. Birch, and if they seem cold to you, you must pardon me. I can say nothing more.” They were indeed feeble words, although most cordially spoken. He tried to weigh them, to measure their meaning, but his mind was as if benumbed, and utterly incapable of thought. He walked across the floor, perhaps only to do something, not feeling where he trod, but still with an absurd sensation that he was taking immoderately long steps. Then he stopped abruptly, wrung his hands, and gazed at Edith. And suddenly, like a flash in a vacuum, the thought shot through his brain that he had seen this very scene somewhere--in a dream, in a remote childhood, in a previous existence, he did not know when or where. It seemed strangely familiar, and in the next instant strangely meaningless and unreal. The walls, the floor--everything began to move, to whirl about him; he struck his hands against his forehead, and sank down into a damask-covered easy-chair. With a faint cry of alarm, Edith sprang up, seized a bottle of cologne which happened to be within reach, and knelt down at his side. She put her arm around his neck, and raised his head. “Mr. Birch, dear Mr. Birch,” she cried, in a frightened whisper, “for God’s sake come to yourself! O God, what have I done?” She blew the eau-de-cologne into his face, and, as he languidly opened his eyes, he felt the touch of her warm hand upon his cheeks and his forehead. “Thank heaven! he is better,” she murmured, still continuing to bathe his temples. “How do you feel now, Mr. Birch?” she added, in a tone of anxious inquiry. “Thank you, it was an unpardonable weakness,” he muttered, without changing his attitude. “Do not trouble yourself about me. I shall soon be well.” It was so sweet to be conscious of her gentle ministry, that it required a great effort, an effort of conscience, to rouse him once more, as his strength returned. “Had you not better stay?” she asked, as he rose to put on his overcoat. “I will call one of the servants and have him show you a room. We will say to-morrow morning that you were taken ill, and nobody will wonder.” “No, no,” he responded, energetically. “I am perfectly strong now.” But he still had to lean on a chair, and his face was deathly pale. “Farewell, Miss Edith,” he said; and a tender sadness trembled in his voice. “Farewell. We shall--probably--never meet again.”