'I shall fulfill my contract to the letter,' she continued; 'or, rather, that which was made for me. I consented to be the sacrifice, and I will accept the fire and the knife resolutely. But you--you--should I link myself to your fate, I should draw you to perdition. Even in the air of Italy, my presence would be poison to you. I speak not of guilt. But my connection--a perjured wife--would debar you from the companionship of all that is noble and good and beautiful. I am but a woman--one woman. Could I have been placed at your side, I might have assisted your conceptions and stimulated your aspirations. But now--_now_--it can not be. Go--seek some other. There are many worthy of your choice. You can find them. If not, live for your art, Frank, and forget me.' 'My art!' he replied, with passionate bitterness; 'curses on it! Aye, I can almost curse the Heaven which gifted me with "ideality." What is it, but unsatisfied mockery of longing?--the execution always failing to meet the promise of the conception. My art! What can the cold marble be to me, when no longer animated by the soul with which my hope of your presence infused it? My art! Would to God that a divine flash of genius would impel me to wield the chisel but for one short month, and then that I might expire by the side of my creation!' 'No, no, Frank,' she interposed; 'you will live long, become renowned, and create not one, but many works for fame; and I shall read of your successes and rejoice in them. More than that, I shall be present with you always in spirit and sympathy. Think of that, Frank. Make me your ideal still, if you will. This will be exquisite satisfaction to me. Let me think that I am always inspiring you. Work for me, Frank.' The young man buried his face in the sofa and sobbed passionately. My wife bent over, and, unknown to him, unless he felt her breath, gently kissed the curls of his hair. 'Come,' she said, 'now you must be gone. Neither of us can endure this longer. Go--go. Do not give me a word or a look. You would only rend my heart, without killing me.' Presently he rose, and, with an effort at self-control, walked towards the door, but stopped and faltered forth, 'Must this be? Is this then our last farewell?' She merely waved her hand, hiding her face. The young man sprang to her side, fell upon his knees, grasped her hand, and covered it with kisses, then rushed to the door and was gone. My wife flung herself upon the sofa and burst forth into a flood of tears. Never before had I beheld her weeping.