you so," she resumed; "and you must see that it is better to part at once:—if it be hard to say adieu for ever, you ought to help me." She paused. I did not answer. "Will you promise not to come?—If you won't, and if you do come here again, you will drive me away before I know where to find another place of refuge— or how to seek it."
"Helen," said I, turning impatiently towards her, "I cannot discuss the matter of eternal separation, calmly and dispassionately as you can do. It is no question of mere expedience with me; it is a question of life and death!"
She was silent. Her pale lips quivered, and her fingers trembled with agitation, as she nervously entwined them in the hair chain to which was appended her small gold watch—the only thing of value she had permitted herself to keep. I had said an unjust and cruel thing; but I must needs follow it up with something worse.
"But Helen!" I began in a soft, low tone,
