“I will obey you,” he said at length, in a voice hoarse with contending emotions.  “We part, and when I return years hence, it may be to see you the happy wife of one in all respects more suited to you; but then, even then, although love for me may have passed away, remember it is you, whose gentle voice has saved a fellow-creature from the sinful recklessness of despair; you who have pointed out the path which, I call heaven and earth to witness, I will leave no means untried till it is trodden.  Had you refused to hear me, had you scorned my affections, left me in displeasure for my presumption, oh, Emmeline, I might indeed have become that which I am believed; but now you have inspired me with a new spirit.  The recollection that you have not deemed me so utterly unworthy, will never, never leave me; it shall cling to me, and if evil assail me, that fond thought shall overcome temptation.  The vain longings for a more stirring profession shall no more torment me, it is enough you have not despised me; and however irksome may be my future duties, they shall be performed with a steadiness and zeal which shall procure me esteem, if it do no more, and reconcile my conscience to my justly offended Maker.  If, in future years, you chance to hear the name of Arthur Myrvin spoken in terms of respect and love, you will trace your own work; and oh, Emmeline, may that thought, that good deed, prove the blessing I would now call down upon your head.”

He paused in strong and overpowering emotion, and Emmeline sought in vain for words to reply; they had reached the entrance to Mrs. Langford’s little garden, and now the hour had come when they must part.  “Farewell, dearest Arthur, may God bless you and give you peace!  Leave me now,” she added, after a moment’s pause.  But Arthur could only fix his eyes mournfully on her face, as though her last look should never leave him; then, suddenly, he raised her hand to his quivering lip.  One moment, through blinding tears, he gazed on that dear being he loved so well; yet another moment, and he was gone.

Emmeline leaned heavily against the little gate, a sickness as of death for a moment crept over her and paralysed every limb; with a strong effort she roused herself and entered the cottage, feeling greatly relieved to find Mrs. Langford was absent.  She sunk on a low seat, and burying her face in her hands, gave way for the first time to a violent burst of tears; yet she had done her duty, she had acted rightly, and that thought enabled her to conquer the natural weakness which, for a short time, completely overpowered her, and when Mrs. Langford returned, no signs of agitation were evident, except a more than ordinary paleness, which in her present delicate state of health, was easily attributable to fatigue.