“Ah, Little Playmate,” he continued, taking her hand, “you are the one who was not only my sweet companion but the bright ideal of my youth. You always stood transfigured in my eyes. You, Teresa, were in my mind something perfect--a bright, brilliant being unlike any other. Whether you were really what I believed you mattered not so far as the effect upon me was concerned. You were at once a real and an ideal being. I believed in you, and believe in you yet. “I was not a lover; I was a devotee. My feelings toward you are such as Dante describes his feelings toward his Beatrice. My love is tender and reverential. I exalt you to a plane above my own. What I say may sound extravagant to you, but it is actual fact with me. Why it should be so I can not tell. I can only say--I am so made. “We part, and I leave you; but I shall be like Dante, I suppose, and as the years pass, instead of weakening my love they will only refine it and purify it. You will be to me a guardian angel, a patron saint--your name shall always mingle with my prayers. Is it impious to name your name in prayer? I turn away from you because I would rather suffer than do wrong. May I not pray for my darling?” “I don’t know what to do,” said Mrs. Thornton, wearily. “Your power over me is fearful. Lama, I would do any thing for your sake. You talk about your memories; it is not for me to speak about mine. Whether you idealize me or not, after all, you must know what I really am.” [Illustration: “SHE WAS WEEPING. DESPARD FOLDED HER IN HIS ARMS.”] “Would you be glad never to see me again?” The hand which Despard held trembled. “If you would be happier,” said she. “Would you be glad if I could conquer this love of mine, and meet you again as coolly as a common friend?” “I want you to be happy, Lama,” she replied. “I would suffer myself to make you happy.” She was weeping. Despard folded her in his arms. “This once,” said he, “the only time, Little Playmate, in this life.” She wept upon his breast. “[Greek: Teleutaion aspasmon domen]” said Despard, murmuring in a low voice the opening of the song of the dead, so well known, so often song, so fondly remembered--the song which bids fare-well to the dead when the friends bestow the “last kiss.” He bent down his head. Her head fell. His lips touched her forehead. She felt the beating of his heart; she felt his frame tremble from head to foot; she heard his deep-drawn breathing, every breath a sigh. “It is our last farewell,” said he, in a voice of agony. Then he tore himself away, and, a few minutes later, was riding from the village. CHAPTER LX. CONCLUSION. A month passed. Despard gave no sign. A short note which he wrote to Brandon announced his arrival at London, and informed him that important affairs required his departure abroad.