“And the length of time?” he said.

“Until Mr. Roscorla comes home again, at all events,” she said.

She had touched an angry chord.  “What has he to do with us?” the young man said almost fiercely.  “I refuse to have him come in as arbiter or in any way whatever.  Let him mind his own business; and I can tell you, when he and I come to talk over this engagement of yours—­”

“You promised not to speak of that,” she said quietly, and he instantly ceased.

“Well, Wenna,” he said after a minute or two, “I think you ask too much, but you must have it your own way.  I won’t annoy you and drive you into a corner:  you may depend on that, to be perfect strangers for an indefinite time—­Then you won’t speak to me when I see you passing to church?”

“Oh yes,” she said, looking down:  “I did not mean strangers like that.”

“And I thought,” said he, with something more than disappointment in his face, “that when I proposed to—­to relieve you from my visits, you would at least let us have one more afternoon together—­only one—­for a drive, you know.  It would be nothing to you:  it would be ’something for me to remember.”

She would not recognize the fact, but for a brief moment his under lip quivered; and somehow she seemed to know it, though she dared not look up to his face.

“One afternoon, only one—­to-morrow—­next day, Wenna?  Surely you cannot refuse me that?” Then, looking at her with a great compassion in his eyes, he suddenly altered his tone.  “I think I ought to be hanged,” he said in a vexed way.  “You are the only person in the world I care for, and every time I see you I plunge you into trouble.  Well, this is the last time.  Good-bye, Wenna.”  Almost involuntarily she put out her hand, but it was with the least perceptible gesture, to bid him remain.  Then she went past him, and there were tears running down her face.  “If—­if you will wait a moment,” she said, “I will see if mamma and I can go with you to-morrow afternoon.”

She went out, and he was left alone.  Each word that she had uttered had pierced his heart; but which did he feel the more deeply—­remorse that he should have insisted on this slight and useless concession, or bitter rage against the circumstances that environed them, and against the man who was altogether responsible for these?  There was now at least one person in the world who greatly longed for the return of Mr. Roscorla.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

FAREWELL!

“Yes, it is true,” the young man said next morning to his cousin:  “this is the last time I shall see her for many a day.”  He was standing with his back to her, moodily staring out of the window.

“Well, Harry,” his cousin said, gently enough, “you won’t be hurt if I say it is a very good thing?  I am glad to see you have so much patience and reasonableness.  Indeed, I think Miss Rosewarne has very much improved you in that respect; and it is very good advice she has given you now.”