“I wish we could have been friends,—I mean, if it would have been good and right for us. But that is the trial I have to bear in everything; I may not keep anything I used to love when I was little. The old books went; and Tom is different, and my father. It is like death. I must part with everything I cared for when I was a child. And I must part with you; we must never take any notice of each other again. That was what I wanted to speak to you for. I wanted to let you know that Tom and I can’t do as we like about such things, and that if I behave as if I had forgotten all about you, it is not out of envy or pride—or—or any bad feeling.” Maggie spoke with more and more sorrowful gentleness as she went on, and her eyes began to fill with tears. The deepening expression of pain on Philip’s face gave him a stronger resemblance to his boyish self, and made the deformity appeal more strongly to her pity. “I know; I see all that you mean,” he said, in a voice that had become feebler from discouragement; “I know what there is to keep us apart on both sides. But it is not right, Maggie,—don’t you be angry with me, I am so used to call you Maggie in my thoughts,—it is not right to sacrifice everything to other people’s unreasonable feelings. I would give up a great deal for _my_ father; but I would not give up a friendship or—or an attachment of any sort, in obedience to any wish of his that I didn’t recognise as right.” “I don’t know,” said Maggie, musingly. “Often, when I have been angry and discontented, it has seemed to me that I was not bound to give up anything; and I have gone on thinking till it has seemed to me that I could think away all my duty. But no good has ever come of that; it was an evil state of mind. I’m quite sure that whatever I might do, I should wish in the end that I had gone without anything for myself, rather than have made my father’s life harder to him.” “But would it make his life harder if we were to see each other sometimes?” said Philip. He was going to say something else, but checked himself. “Oh, I’m sure he wouldn’t like it. Don’t ask me why, or anything about it,” said Maggie, in a distressed tone. “My father feels so strongly about some things. He is not at all happy.” “No more am I,” said Philip, impetuously; “I am not happy.” “Why?” said Maggie, gently. “At least—I ought not to ask—but I’m very, very sorry.” Philip turned to walk on, as if he had not patience to stand still any longer, and they went out of the hollow, winding amongst the trees and bushes in silence. After that last word of Philip’s, Maggie could not bear to insist immediately on their parting.