“Hear, hear!” said Amroth; “a very creditable sentiment, to be sure!”

Lucius smiled and blushed.  Then he said: 

“I never was much of a hand at expressing myself correctly; but you know what I mean.  Don’t take the wind out of my sails!”

And then Amroth turned to me, and said suddenly: 

“And now I have something else to tell you, and not wholly good news; so I will just say it at once, without beating about the bush.  You are to come with us too.”

Cynthia looked up suddenly with a glance of pale inquiry.  Amroth took her hand.

“No, dear child,” he said, “you are not to accompany him.  You must stay here awhile, until the child is grown.  But don’t look like that!  There is no such thing as separation here, or anywhere.  Don’t make it harder for us all.  It is unpleasant of course; but, good heavens, what would become of us all if it were not for that!  How dull we should be without suffering!”

“Yes, yes,” said Cynthia, “I know—­and I will say nothing against it.  But—­” and she burst into tears.

“Come, come,” said Amroth cheerfully, “we must not go back to the old days, and behave as if there were partings and funerals.  I will give you five minutes alone to say good-bye.  Lucius, we must start,” and, turning to me, he said, “Meet us in five minutes by the oak-tree in the road.”

They went out, Lucius kissing Cynthia’s hand in silence.

Cynthia came up to me and put her arms round my neck and her cheek to mine.  We sobbed, I fear, like two children.

“Don’t forget me, dearest,” she said.

“My darling, what a word!” I said.

“Oh, how happy we have been together!” she said.

“Yes, and shall be happier still,” I said.

And then with more words and signs of love, too sacred even to be written down, we parted.  It was over.  I looked back once, and saw my darling gather the child to her heart, and look up once more at me.  Then I closed the door; something seemed to surge up in my heart and overwhelm me; and then the ring on my finger sent a sharp pang through my whole frame, which recalled me to myself.  And I say it with all the strength of my spirit, I saw how joyful a thing it was to suffer and grieve.  I came down to the oak.  The two were waiting in silence, and Lucius seemed to be in tears.  Amroth put his arm through mine.

“Come, brother,” he said, “that was a bad business; I won’t pretend otherwise; but these things had better come swiftly.”

“Yes,” said Lucius, “but it is a cruel affair, and I can’t say otherwise.  Why cannot God leave us alone?”

“Lucius,” said Amroth very gravely, “here you may say and think as you will—­and the thoughts of the heart are best uttered.  But one must not blaspheme.”

“No, no,” said Lucius, “I was wrong.  I ought not to have spoken so.  And indeed I know in my heart that somehow, far off, it is well.  But I was thinking,” he said, turning to me, and grasping my hand in both of his own, “not of you, but of Cynthia.  I am glad with all my heart that you took her from me, and have made her happy.  But what miserable creatures we all are; and how much more miserable we should be if we were not miserable!”