"Yes!"
Obediently she arose and, crossing to his lordship, placed her hand in
his.
"I'll go wi' you, old pal," said she.
Now as our Ancient Person turned to smile at her, I saw his furrowed
cheek was wet with tears also.
"Sir, when--when do you start?" I enquired.
"At once, Peregrine. We shall be in London to-night."
"Then this is--good-bye, sir?"
"Yes, my children!"
"My lord," said I, rising wearily, "I am leaving with you all I
possess, my present joy, my--hope for the future, my loved Diana."
"God make me worthy of the charge, Peregrine."
All in a moment she was at my feet, upon her knees, her arms fast
about me, her face hidden against me, her body shaken with convulsive
sobs.
"O Perry, I can't--I can't do it--no, no--don't let me go--"
At this I knelt also and thus we faced each other on our knees, as
when Love first had found us. And so I clasped and kissed and strove
to comfort her, until the passion of her grief was abated. "Must I go,
dear Peregrine--must I go?" she whispered, beneath my kisses.
"Yes, for the sake of the future--yours and mine. God keep you
and--good-bye, my own Diana!"
Then I arose and left her there upon her knees, looking after me
through fast-falling tears and her loved arms stretched out to me in
piteous supplication.
"Peregrine," she pleaded, "oh, my Peregrine!"
But I turned away and rushed from the spot, never daring to look back;
but ever as I went, that desolate cry rang and echoed in my ears.
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