You must not leave me; never can we two part.

Try me, only try me, and if ever hereafter my heart wander from you, _then_, Lucille, leave me to my remorse!" Even at that moment Lucille did not yield; she felt that his prayer was but the enthusiasm of the hour; she felt that there was a virtue in her pride,--that to leave him was a duty to herself.

In vain he pleaded; in vain were his embraces, his prayers; in vain he reminded her of their plighted troth, of her aged parents, whose happiness had become wrapped in her union with him: "How,--even were it as you wrongly believe,--how, in honour to them, can I desert you, can I wed another ?" "Trust that, trust all, to me," answered Lucille; "your honour shall be my care, none shall blame _you_; only do not let your marriage with Julie be celebrated here before their eyes: that is all I ask, all they can expect.

God bless you! do not fancy I shall be unhappy, for whatever happiness the world gives you, shall I not have contributed to bestow it?
and with that thought I am above compassion." She glided from his arms, and left him to a solitude more bitter even than that of blindness.

That very night Lucille sought her mother; to her she confided all.