happen in that time? Yesterday I seemed to have no fear; to-day I see into shadow-land. What has happened to me between the days that has shaken me horribly? Only a dream; a silly, mocking, intangible dream, that Paul would laugh to scorn—shall I tell him of it before he goes? shall I warn him?
"Don't flirt with George while I am away," he says, jealously. "you will have lots of opportunities, you know."
"Poor George!" I say, sadly; "I don't think there is much fear."
"Darling!" he says, "I shall give up this train, and take you back to the Manor House."
"No, you will not, Paul; for where would be the good? If you missed that you would have to catch the next. I should only have to say good-bye to you at home instead of here, and you promised me that I should say it here, dear, and nowhere else."
"I did promise," he says; "but I can't let you go like this."
"Yes, you will go," I say, gently; "you will kiss me once, Paul, and then you will go."
And so he takes me in his arms and kisses me many times "Good-bye, little sweetheart, good-bye," he says, and at last goes away.
Half-way across the field he turns and looks at me. All unconsciously I hold out my arms to him, and he comes back.
"Do not forget," I whisper, "that here, where I kissed you first, I kissed you last. . . ."
There is one more swift embrace, a passionate clinging of hands, and he is gone; and I stand staring after him, with aching, burning eyeballs, and a heart heavy as lead. Why do I feel so certainly, desperately sure that he is going away from me to-day—for evil, not good? I watch him over the brow of the hill, turning often as he goes. Then go along the meadow with halting, lagging steps, and presently meet George with his dogs at his heels.
