“Yes—­going into the far East; to the ruined altars of Baalbec; to Meroe, to Tartary, India, China, and only Fate knows where else.  Perhaps find a cool Nebo in some Himalayan range.  Going?  Yes.  Did you suppose I meant only to operate on your sympathies?  I know you too well.  What is it to you whether I live or die? whether my weary feet rest in an Indian jungle, or on a sunny slope of the city cemetery?  Yes, I am going very soon, and this is our last meeting.  I shall not again disturb you in your ambitious pursuits.  Ah, child—­”

“Oh, don’t go! don’t leave me!  I beg, I implore you, not to leave me.  Oh, I am so desolate! don’t forsake me!  I could not bear to know you were gone.  Oh, don’t leave me!” She sprang up, and, throwing her arms round his neck, clung to him, trembling like a frightened child.  But there was no relaxation of his pale, fixed features, as he coldly answered: 

“Once resolved, I never waver.  So surely as I live I shall go.  It might have been otherwise, but you decided it yourself.  An hour ago you held my destiny in your hands; now it is fixed.  I should have gone six years since had I not indulged a lingering hope of happiness in your love.  Child, don’t shiver and cling to me so.  Oceans will soon roll between us, and, for a time, you will have no leisure to regret my absence.  Henceforth we are strangers.”

“No; that shall never be.  You do not mean it; you know it is impossible.  You know that I prize your friendship above every earthly thing.  You know that I look up to you as to no one else.  That I shall be miserable, oh, how miserable, if you leave me!  Oh, sir, I have mourned over your coldness and indifference; don’t cast me off!  Don’t go to distant lands and leave me to struggle without aid or counsel in this selfish, unfriendly world!  My heart dies within me at the thought of your being where I shall not be able to see you.  Oh, my guardian, don’t forsake me!”

She pressed her face against his shoulder and clasped her arms firmly round his neck.

“I am not your guardian, Beulah.  You refused to make me such.  You are a proud, ambitious woman, solicitous only to secure eminence as an authoress.  I asked your heart; you have now none to give; but perhaps some day you will love me as devotedly, nay, as madly, as I have long loved you; for love like mine would wake affection even in a marble image; but then rolling oceans and trackless deserts will divide us.  And now, good-by.  Make yourself a name; bind your aching brow with the chaplet of fame, and see if ambition can fill your heart.  Good-by, dear child.”