ideal should be
wrecked, you might find me a burden. I loved you, Henry--I seem to
have always loved you, but I would not burden you."

"No, no, Laura--not so! not so!"

"And you wanted me for Phil's sake, whom we both loved; and now that
your dream is over, and Phil is gone, I should only remind you of
where you lost him, and of your disappointment, and of--this other
thing, and I could not be sure that you loved me or wanted me."

"Surely you cannot doubt it, Laura?" His voice was firm, but to her
sensitive spirit it did not carry conviction.

"You remembered me from my youth," she continued tremulously but
bravely, "and it was the image in your memory that you loved. And now,
when you go away, the old town will shrink and fade from your memory
and your heart and you will have none but harsh thoughts of it; nor
can I blame you greatly, for you have grown far away from us, and we
shall need many years to overtake you. Nor do you need me, Henry--I am
too old to learn new ways, and elsewhere than here I should be a
hindrance to you rather than a help. But in the larger life to which
you go, think of me now and then as one who loves you still, and who
will try, in her poor way, with such patience as she has, to carry on
the work which you have begun, and which you--Oh, Henry!"

He divined her thought, though her tear-filled eyes spoke sorrow
rather than reproach.

"Yes," he said sadly, "which I have abandoned. Yes, Laura, abandoned,
fully and forever."

The colonel was greatly moved, but his resolution remained unshaken.

"Laura," he said, taking both her hands in his, "I swear that I should
be glad to have you with me. Come away! The place is not fit for you
to live in!"

"No, Henry! it cannot be! I could not go! My duty holds me here! God
would not forgive me if I abandoned it. Go your way; live your life.
Marry some other woman, if you must, who will make you happy. But I
shall keep, Henry--nothing can ever take away from me--the memory of
one happy summer."

"No, no, Laura, it need not be so! I shall write you. You'll think
better of it. But I go to-night--not one hour longer than I must, will
I remain in this town. I must bid your mother and Graciella good-bye."

He went into the house. Mrs. Treadwell was excited and sorry, and
would have spoken at length, but the colonel's farewells were brief.

"I cannot stop to say more than good-bye, dear Mrs. Treadwell. I have
spent a few happy months in my old ho