"I am going away to die. I should have liked to close my eyes in the old house, but for my father's sake, I am willing to depart and make a show for my life. It is useless, however. I shall die." "Dear Pauline, do not speak so. Your case is by no means hopeless. A change of air and scene will revive you. We shall both see better days again." "You may, Roddy, and that shall be my dying prayer, but not I. Alas! not I." Still holding her white thin hand in both his, Hardinge threw himself at her feet, weeping and beseeching that she would recall these words of doom. Pauline sat upright in her seat and, in a strangely quavering voice, exclaimed: "Rise, Roderick Hardinge. Do not kneel to me. It is I should be prostrate before you. I called you to say farewell, but there is more. I could not leave without asking your forgiveness." "My forgiveness, Pauline? What wildness is this?" "Yes, your forgiveness. I have been false to you." And here the poor girl utterly broke down. She averted her face in her chair and burst into a paroxysm of tears. Roderick rose from the floor. He was in a whirl. Had he heard aright, or was he raving? He was at length brought to his senses by a soft voice requesting him to be seated and hear all. "I could not help it, Roddy. It was all unconsciously. Had I known what I know now, it would not have happened. It was not I brought the circumstances about. It was all meant for the best by you and me. But the fatality came. It was a terrible revelation to me. That is the blow that has blasted my health and life. But the fault is mine all the same. Your conduct was noble throughout and you did not deserve it. I repeat that the fault is all my own. I am willing to expiate it. I am content to die. My death will end everything. Farewell, Roddy. One parting kiss and your forgiveness." Strange that through this speech, sounding like the music of a broken harp, Roderick remained perfectly cool and collected. With acutest perception he understood everything now. The black cloud was rent and light poured down upon him. It was a light from heaven, for it warmed his soul to heroism. "Pauline," he said in gentlest accents, "the spasm is past and I can speak to you, as of old. My words shall be few, because I see that this effort has spent you. You have done an injustice to yourself and me. My forgiveness, dearest? You have none to ask. You have done me no wrong. I had no right over you. We have known each other for long years and have loved each other?" "Ah! Roddy, ah! how well!" sweet and low, as waters murmuring over pebbles. "Yes, how well, Pauline. But love is not our own. It is disposed of by a higher will. We had hoped that it might end in something else--at least such was my hope." "And mine, Roddy."