“Yes; exactly so.”

“I do not want to part with any of it, but I got a valuation taken of it the other day, which you see here, and I give you the market price for all the things.  There is no favour in such a commercial transaction as that surely, so here is a little addition to your slender capital.  You will find the money all right, I think, odd shillings and all.”

“All right,” said Jane, compelling herself to count the notes according to her old methodical way.

“And you like my cottages, Jane, and you hope great things from the allotments, and you were pleased with my two speeches in parliament?  Oh!  Jane, if I am ever worth anything I will owe it to you, and now you are going to put half the globe between us, I feel as if I had lost more than half of myself.”

Jane could scarcely trust herself to speak.

“It is better so, Francis.”

“If you miss me as I know I will miss you, write and tell me so.  You know, Jane, I love you,” said Francis.

“I feared it.”

“Why should you fear it?  Is it not the most natural, the most reasonable thing I could do?  If you loved me you would not fear it.”

“I thought that in all your many avocations, and especially in public life, that you would forget this fancy, but it is well that I must leave the country, for then I may hope that you will form another attachment.  Write to me when you do so, that I may know I have not permanently deprived you of domestic happiness, and that I may pray for you both.  You think you owe me much, but to you I owe still more.  Till I knew you I had no religion, I never knew the privilege of prayer.  Even though we may never meet again on earth, we can look forward to a happy meeting in heaven.”

“Now, Jane, when you women bid good-bye to a friend of your own sex, as dear to you as I am to you—­for in a sense I am dear to you, am I not?”

“Yes, very dear to me,” was wrung out of Jane, by Francis’ earnest looks and words.

“Well, when you bade farewell to Peggy this morning, she took you in her arms and kissed you—­you kissed Mary Forrester, a stranger to you—­and you are going to leave me—­perhaps for ever—­me, who would give my life to serve you, who would give up fortune, fame, almost duty for your sake, and you will shake hands coldly, and say—­’Good-bye, Francis.’”

“Not coldly, my friend—­my brother.  Do not think I can part from you so,” and by an irresistible impulse, she turned to her cousin, and felt herself folded for a few seconds in his arms, and kissed with passionate tenderness.

“This is what might have been ours for life, but for this accursed will, and your notions of what is best for me, and perhaps a natural disinclination towards my suit.  Reflect—­think—­before it is too late make your choice;—­love in poverty and obscurity, perhaps—­but still love.”

“Love is not all life, either for you or for me;—­it is better for us to part.”