“Since yesterday afternoon,” he repeated bitterly. “You must feel as they all do, about that.” “I don't know how the others feel,” she answered almost fiercely. “That is no business of mine. But I understood, I sympathized, a great deal more than you would believe—and I wanted to tell you so.” “You couldn't understand—you couldn't sympathize. It doesn't touch you anywhere. You 're going to-day and you won't come back. Well, don't think of any of us again. Don't try and help us—it only makes it worse for us.” “No, please; that is unkind and untrue. If you would let me I would understand—and even if I am going away it would be something for both of us if we knew that we had parted friends, that—” But suddenly he interrupted her, standing in her path, his face working most strangely, muttering words that she could not catch. She wondered what he was going to do, he looked so odd and wild against the breaking dawn. Then he seemed to turn from her with a gesture that had some strange greatness in it; he faced the sea, his hands clenched behind his back and in the still hush of the morning she heard his sobs. “Oh, please—don't,” and then she stayed in infinite distress waiting for him to turn. His figure was so desolate, so thin and ragged, in the cold morning air, and her heart was full of the deepest aching pity. At last he turned round to her. “Let us go on,” he said roughly; “I am all in pieces—don't mind me—you shouldn't have spoken to me like that—it's more than I can stand.” Then after a pause he went on, “You mustn't talk of our being friends. A man like myself cannot be a friend of yours.” “That is for me to say,” she answered gently. “I have been so wrong all this term. I have only made things worse instead of better and I did so want to help. It's been awful this term and yesterday afternoon was the worst of all. Oh! If you only knew how I had agreed with the things you said!” “It is n't any use,” he answered. “It's too late.” “It isn't too late. It's never too late. If you won't let me help you, why then perhaps you 'll help me.” “Help you?” “Yes—if you knew how miserable it will always make me if we part like this—I shall never cease my regret. Please, tell me a little of what you've felt, of what you 're going to do. It isn't kind to me to leave it like this.” There was a long silence. She had never before realized how young she was; her inexperience faced her most desperately, so that she felt bitterly that she could not touch even the fringe of his troubles. Every word that she uttered seemed an impertinence and yet she knew that if she went away without speaking she would regret it all her life. At last he turned round to her; he seemed to have gained absolute control of himself and his voice was quite steady.