The moon was shining
in at the one wide window: I can remember exactly the pattern that the
vine-leaves made as the moonlight fell through them on the carpet at our
feet. I had a bunch of verbena-leaves fastened in my dress, and I never
smell verbena-leaves at any time or place without seeing before me that
moon-traced pattern and that wide-open window.

"Pauline," he said, in that low, thrilling voice, leaning a little
toward me, "I have a great deal to say to you to-night. I have a great
wrong to ask pardon for--a great sorrow to tell you of. I shall never
call you Pauline again as I call you to-night. I shall never look into
your eyes again, I shall never touch your hand. For we must part,
Pauline; and this hour, which heaven has given me, is the last that we
shall spend together on the earth."

I truly thought that his fever had produced delirium, and, trying to
conceal my alarm, I said, with an attempt to quiet him, "Oh, do not say
such things; we shall see each other a great, great many times, I hope,
and have many more hours together."

"No, Pauline, you do not know so well as I of what I speak. This is no
delirium; would to heaven, it were, and I might wake up from it. No, the
parting must be said to-night, and I must be the one to speak it. We
may spend days, perhaps, under the same roof--we may even sit at the
same table once again; but, I repeat, from this day I may never look
into your eyes again, I may never touch your hand. Pauline, can you
forgive me? I know that you can love. Merciful Heaven! who so well as I,
who have held your stainless heart in my stained hand these many dreamy
weeks; and Justice has not struck me dead. Yes, Pauline, I know you've
loved me; but remember this one thing, in all your bitter thoughts of me
hereafter: remember this, you have not loved me as I have loved you. You
have not given up earth and heaven both for me as I have done for you.
For you? No, not for you, but for the shadow of you, for the thought of
you, for these short weeks of you. And then, an eternity of absence, and
of remorse, and of oblivion--ah, if it might be oblivion for you! If I
could blot out of your life this short, blighting summer; if I could put
you back to where you were that fresh, sweet morning that I walked with
you beside the river! I loved you from that day, Pauline, and I drugged
my conscience, and refused to heed that I was doing you a wrong in
teaching you to love me. Pauline, I have to tell