I was always glad to go, before--London is very gay now you know--but I am not glad now." "No more am I, I can assure you.

I am very sorry." "Six weeks will soon pass." "Six weeks of pain is a good long time.

You are the sunshine of my life.
And you are going to shine on others, and leave me dark and solitary." "But how do you know I shall shine on others?
Perhaps I shall be duller than you will, and think all the more of Hillsborough, for being in London." The melting tone in which this was said, and the coy and tender side-glance that accompanied it, were balm of Gilead to the lover.
He took comfort, and asked her, cheerfully, if he might write to her.
She hesitated a single moment, and then said "Yes." She added, however, after a pause, "But you can't; for you don't know my address." "But you will tell me." "Never! never! Fifty-eight Clarges Street." "When do you go ?" "The day after to-morrow: at twelve o'clock." "May I see you off at the train ?" She hesitated.

"If--you--like," said she, slowly: "but I think you had better not." "Oh, let me see the last of you." "Use your own judgment, dear." The monosyllable slipped out, unintentionally: she was thinking of something else.

Yet, as soon as she had uttered it, she said "Oh!" and blushed all, over.