"You may rely upon me as you would rely upon yourself," said the young officer earnestly. "Should the time ever come that my fortunes ascend--it seems next door to an impossibility now, but such things have been heard of--and Lucy be still free----" "That could make no alteration: want of fortune is not the only bar," haughtily interrupted Colonel Cleeve. "The present is enough for us, Mr. Andinnian: let us leave the future." "True. The present is greatly enough; and I beg your pardon, Colonel Cleeve. I will keep my word both in the spirit and the letter. And now, I would make one request to you, sir--that you will allow me to see Lucy for an instant before we finally part." "That you may gain some foolish promise from her?--of waiting, or something of that kind!" was the angry rejoinder. "I told you that you might rely upon me," replied Karl with sad emphasis. "Colonel Cleeve, don't you see what a bitter blow this is to me?" he burst forth, with an emotion he had not betrayed throughout the interview. "It may be bitter to Lucy also. Let us say a word of good-bye to each other for the last time." Colonel Cleeve hardly knew what to do. He did not like to say No; he did not like to say Yes. That it was bitter to one, he saw; that it might be bitter to the other, he quite believed: and he had a soft place in his heart. "I will trust you in this as I trust you in the other, Mr. Andinnian. It must be good-bye, only, you understand: and a brief one." He quitted the room, and sent Lucy in. Almost better for them both that he had not done so--for these partings are nearly as cruel as death. To them both, this severing asunder for all time seemed worse than death. Lucy, looking quiet and simple in her muslin, stood shivering. "I could not depart without begging you to forgive me, Lucy," Karl said, his tone less firm than usual with emotion and pain. "I ought to have exercised more thought; to have foreseen what must be the inevitable ending. Colonel Cleeve has my promise that I will never again seek you in any way: that from henceforth we shall be as strangers. Oh my darling!--I may surely call you so in this last hour!--this is painful I fear to you as to me." She went quite close to him, her eyes cast up to his with a piteous mourning in their depths; eyes too sad for tears. "They have told me the same, Karl. There is no hope at all for us. But I--I wish in my turn to say something to you. Karl"--and her voice sank to a whisper, and she put out her hand as if inviting him to take it--"I shall never forget you; I shall never care for you less than I do now." He did not take her hand. He took her. Almost beside himself with the bitter pain, Karl Andinnian so far forgot himself as to clasp this young girl to his heart: as to rain down on her sweet face the sad kisses from his lips. But he remembered his promise to Colonel Cleeve, and said never a word of hope for the future.