"I do not wish to do anything that is wrong," the girl said, with some alarm, stepping away from him, as if frightened at her situation; "but on the score of friendship, I may say that I shall be very lonely when you are gone. Davy's Bend was never an agreeable place, but I was content with it until you came and filled me with ambition. I wanted to become worthy of the many kind things you said of me; I hoped that I might distinguish myself in some way, and cause you to rejoice that you had predicted well of me, but now that you are going away, you will never know of it even if I succeed. I may regret your departure on this account, if nothing else. I _do_ regret it for another reason, but you reprimand me for saying it." The dogged look which distinguished him when thinking came into his face again, and though he seemed to be paying no attention, he was listening with keen interest. "Regret seems to be the common inheritance," he said, after a protracted silence between them. "Your regret makes me stronger; it convinces me that I am not its only victim. Duty is a master we must all obey, though I wonder that so many heed its demands, since it seldom leads us in the direction we would travel. The busy world is full of people who are making sacrifices for duty as great as yours and mine; let us not fail in doing ours. In the name of the only woman I ever loved, I ask you to bid me good-by with indifference. For the good of the best woman in the world, play a joyful march while I leave your presence, never to return." Without another word, the girl sprang to her seat at the organ, and Allan Dorris having awakened the sleeping janitor, the music commenced; a march of joy, to the time of which he left the church without once looking back. But on reaching the outside he could not resist the temptation to look once more at Annie Benton; so he climbed up to his old position on the wall, and looked at her through the broken pane.