“My own dearest Marian,” he said; “my frank, generous love! if I were going to remain in this neighborhood this winter, no consideration, I fear, for others’ good, would induce me to consent to part with you.”

It was now Marian’s turn to change color, and falter in her tones, as she asked: 

“You—­you are not going away?”

“Sweet Marian, yes!  A duty—­a necessity too imperative to be denied, summons me.”

She kept her eyes fixed on his face in painful anxiety.

“I will explain.  You have heard, dear Marian, that after my father’s death my mother married a second time?”

“No—­I never heard of it.”

“She did, however—­her second husband was a Scotchman.  She lived with him seven years, and then died, leaving him one child, a boy six years of age.  After my mother’s death, my stepfather returned to Scotland, taking with him my half-brother, and leaving me with my grandfather.  And all communication gradually ceased between us.  Within this week, however, I have received letters from Edinburgh, informing me of the death of my stepfather, and the perfect destitution of my half-brother, now a lad of twelve years of age.  He is at present staying with the clergyman who attended his father in his last illness, and who has written me the letters giving me the information that I now give you.  Thus, you see, my dearest love, how urgent the duty is that takes me from your side.  Yet—­What! tears, my Marian!  Ah, if so! let my dearest one but say the word, and I will not leave her.  I will send money over to the lad instead.”

“No, no!  Ah! no, never trust your mother’s orphan boy to strangers, or to his own guidance.  Go for the poor, desolate lad, and never leave him, or suffer him to leave you.  I know what orphanage in childhood is, dear Thurston, and so must you.  Bring the boy home.  And if he lives with you, I will do all I can to supply his mother’s place.”

“Dear girl! dear, dear Marian, my heart so longs to press you to itself.  A plague upon these horses that keep us so far apart!  I wish we were on foot!”

“Do you?” smiled Marian, directing his attention to the sloppy path down which they were riding.

Thurston smiled ruefully, and then sighed.

“When do you set out on your long journey, dear Thurston?”

“I have not fixed the time, my Marian!  I have not the courage to name the day that shall part us for so long.”

He looked at her with a heavy sigh, and then added: 

“I shrink from appointing the time of going, as a criminal might shrink from giving the signal for his own execution.”

“Then let some other agent do it,” said Marian, smiling at his earnestness.  Then she added—­“I shall go to Washington with Jacquelina.  Her party will set out on Wednesday next.  And, dear Thurston, I shall not like to leave you here, at all.  I shall go with more content, if I knew that you set out the same day for your journey.”