debar you from the companionship of
all that is noble and good and beautiful. I am but a woman--one woman.
Could I have been placed at your side, I might have assisted your
conceptions and stimulated your aspirations. But now--_now_--it can not
be. Go--seek some other. There are many worthy of your choice. You can
find them. If not, live for your art, Frank, and forget me.'

'My art!' he replied, with passionate bitterness; 'curses on it! Aye, I
can almost curse the Heaven which gifted me with "ideality." What is it,
but unsatisfied mockery of longing?--the execution always failing to
meet the promise of the conception. My art! What can the cold marble be
to me, when no longer animated by the soul with which my hope of your
presence infused it? My art! Would to God that a divine flash of genius
would impel me to wield the chisel but for one short month, and then
that I might expire by the side of my creation!'

'No, no, Frank,' she interposed; 'you will live long, become renowned,
and create not one, but many works for fame; and I shall read of your
successes and rejoice in them. More than that, I shall be present with
you always in spirit and sympathy. Think of that, Frank. Make me your
ideal still, if you will. This will be exquisite satisfaction to me. Let
me think that I am always inspiring you. Work for me, Frank.'

The young man buried his face in the sofa and sobbed passionately. My
wife bent over, and, unknown to him, unless he felt her breath, gently
kissed the curls of his hair. 'Come,' she said, 'now you must be gone.
Neither of us can endure this longer. Go--go. Do not give me a word or a
look. You would only rend my heart, without killing me.'

Presently he rose, and, with an effort at self-control, walked towards
the door, but stopped and faltered forth, 'Must this be? Is this then
our last farewell?'

She merely waved her hand, hiding her face.

The young man sprang to her side, fell upon his knees, grasped her hand,
and covered it with kisses, then rushed to the door and was gone.

My wife flung herself upon the sofa and burst forth into a flood of
tears. Never before had I beheld her weeping.

During this interview I stood like a statue. It seemed to me that I had
lived an age,--such a life as those may be supposed to have, who, as
related in Eastern tales, are transformed to stone for a century,
retaining their consciousness. A revolution had gone through its entire
progress in me. For the firs