“I shall write you every day when I don't happen to see you, so you will know how I get on.” “Yes! yes! but are you going?” “I must go sometime and it's better over with. We shall write each other and we shall meet quite often at various places. I shall go where I know you will be.” She was crying violently. “You must not leave me! You must not, Philip!” But he moved slowly to the door. “I can't tell you how hard I shall work. Just be brave and good as you have been from the start and it will come out all right.” “I can't wait forever—and I need you now.” “You will have to, dearest.” “Doesn't it make you furious?” “What, Barbara?” “Furious, that he can interfere with us. It's our life—our love. We only ask to be left alone. Oh—I can't bear it!” “I'm afraid we must bear it for a while. We won't be altogether separated—we will see each other now and then!” “No! no! what will such meetings be—with people about—people who will stare at us with silly senseless curiosity!” “Good-by for the present, dear—for to-day.” “No—no!” “We shall meet often. Try to think of that.” “I am not brave and I invariably give in. He knows it. I shall have no peace if you go like this. Promise me you will come back!” “I can not, Barbara.” “Then the blame for whatever follows falls on you. You go willingly.” “You are unjust.” “You go willingly,” she insisted. “You desert me. You leave me for him to torture into doing what he wants! Is it nothing to you?” “I love you,” he answered simply. “And if we drift apart?” “I don't know what you mean. How can we drift apart?” “People do.” “Are we like them?” “Are we?” “I thought we were not,” he said. “Why should you think that?” she answered. “I don't know. Perhaps we are the same as the rest. Perhaps I only imagine the difference.” “You are going?” she said in alarm as he moved toward the door. “Yes, Barbara.” But Barbara threw herself down into a chair and commenced to cry afresh. This drew Philip back to her side in an instant. “Won't you say good-by, Barbara, just for the present? Won't you say good-by, dear?” He sought to remove the hand she held before her face. She gave him no answer and he turned from her, at first irresolute and then with more decision, for his mind was made up. After all, her sense of resentment would lighten her grief for the moment. It would be easier to bear because of it. He stepped into the hall, the door closed, and Barbara heard his footsteps growing fainter. He was gone! Curled up in the easy chair she sobbed out her sorrow and anger, for it was a mingling of both. At last she raised her head and looked about. She was still sobbing brokenly. Suddenly she sat erect. It was growing late. She remembered that her father was to bring Mr. Shelden home with him to tea.