lled with the roseate morning light of youth and hope! As a
rule the parting takes place without trouble. He is calm, and she is
sensible. Then they dine together in the country, for the last time,
drink champagne, and separate with blithesome wishes for future
prosperity. Or they are both sentimental. Then there is a little
weeping and sighing, they promise to write to each other and probably
do so for a time, and it is days, perhaps even weeks before the wound
in the heart which, happily, is not very deep, heals.

But often, oh, often----

Well, Rudolf's case was precisely one of these. When it was time to
leave Paris to begin his professional life, he perceived with terror
that the bonds which united him to Pauline were much firmer than he had
ever supposed. For two years she had shared his room in the Passage
Saumon and, during this whole period, she had not caused him a moment's
sorrow, had always thought only of him, to see him content and happy.
She went to her work-room in the morning with a kiss and a smile, and
returned in the evening with a smile and an embrace. If he was at work
she sat quietly in her corner, looking over at him; if he wanted to be
gay, she was as frolicsome as a poodle. If he took her to the theatre,
she kissed his hand in gratitude. If he went out alone, she was sad,
but she said nothing and asked no questions, which touched him so much
that he gradually relinquished the habit of going out alone. If he
gave her anything, she was reluctant to accept it; she would scarcely
allow him even to bestow any articles of dress. In the whole two years
he had never seen her nervous or out of temper. Yet he ought, he must
repulse this loyal devotion. Yes, he must. For he could not be so
crazy as to marry her! At twenty-three! A girl who had been picked up
on the sidewalk of the Rue Montmartre. The thought was so absurd that
it was not worth while to dwell upon it a moment. Then, when he told
her that the happiness must now end, he saw her, to his surprise and
terror, turn deadly pale and sink back fainting.

On recovering her consciousness, she burst into endless sobs, clung to
his neck, covered him with burning kisses and tears, and exclaimed:

"No, no, you won't leave me; I cannot, I cannot, I would rather die."

He vainly endeavored to bring her to reason. She would listen to
nothing. "For what do you reproach me?" The question could not help
embarrassing him; for he had no