I am going away, Isobel, or rather, my father is sending me away." He turned, and pointing to the stormy western sky where the day died in splendour, added simply in the poetic imagery that so often springs to the lips of youth: "There sets our sun; at least it is the last we shall look upon together for a whole year.

You go to London to-morrow, don't you?
Before you come back I shall be gone." "Gone! Why?
Where?
Oh! what's the use of asking?
I knew something of the sort was coming.

I felt it in that horrible old church.

And after all, why should I mind?
What does it matter if you go away for a year or ten years--except that you are the only friend I have--especially as no doubt you are glad to get out of this dreadful hole?
Don't stand there looking at me like a moon-calf, whatever that may be, but tell me what you mean, or I'll, I'll----" and she stopped.
Then he told her--well, not quite everything, for he omitted his father's disparaging remarks about herself.
She listened in her intent fashion, and filled in the gaps without difficulty.
"I see," she said.

"Your father thinks that I am corrupting you about religion, as though anybody could corrupt you when you have got an idea into your stupid head; at least, on those subjects.