He seemed weak, and his hand shook as he leaned against the casement, but his eyes were glittering with a feverish excitement.  He did not answer.  I went on:  “The Doctor forbade your coming out for several days yet—­and the exertion and the night-air—­oh, I beg you to go back.”

“Alone?” he said in a low voice.

“No, oh no, I will go with you.  Anything, only do not stay here a moment longer; come.”  And taking his hand (and how burning hot it was!) and drawing it through my arm, I started toward the hall.  He had to lean on me, for the unusual exertion seemed to have annihilated all his strength.  When we reached the library, I led him to a chair—­a large and low and easy one, and he sank down in it.

“You are not going away?” he asked, as he gasped for breath, “For there is something that must be said to-night.”

“No, I will not go,” I answered, frightened to see him so, and agitated by a thousand feelings.  “I will light the lamp, and read to you.  Let me move your chair back from the window.”

“No, you must not light the lamp; I like the moonlight better.  Bring your chair and sit here by me—­here.”  He leaned and half-pulled toward him the companion to the chair on which he sat, a low, soft, easy one.

I sat down in it, sitting so I nearly faced him.  The moon was shining in at the one wide window:  I can remember exactly the pattern that the vine-leaves made as the moonlight fell through them on the carpet at our feet.  I had a bunch of verbena-leaves fastened in my dress, and I never smell verbena-leaves at any time or place without seeing before me that moon-traced pattern and that wide-open window.

“Pauline,” he said, in that low, thrilling voice, leaning a little toward me, “I have a great deal to say to you to-night.  I have a great wrong to ask pardon for—­a great sorrow to tell you of.  I shall never call you Pauline again as I call you to-night.  I shall never look into your eyes again, I shall never touch your hand.  For we must part, Pauline; and this hour, which heaven has given me, is the last that we shall spend together on the earth.”

I truly thought that his fever had produced delirium, and, trying to conceal my alarm, I said, with an attempt to quiet him, “Oh, do not say such things; we shall see each other a great, great many times, I hope, and have many more hours together.”

“No, Pauline, you do not know so well as I of what I speak.  This is no delirium; would to heaven, it were, and I might wake up from it.  No, the parting must be said to-night, and I must be the one to speak it.  We may spend days, perhaps, under the same roof—­we may even sit at the same table once again; but, I repeat, from this day I may never look into your eyes again, I may never touch your hand.  Pauline, can you forgive me?  I know that you can love.  Merciful Heaven! who so well as I, who have held your stainless heart in my stained hand these many dreamy weeks; and Justice