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to his feet; his one impulse was to get away, to fight out the battle with himself. Wallulah grew pale.

"You are going?" she said, rising also. "Some thing in your face tells me you are not coming back/ and she looked at him with strained, sad, wistful eyes.

He stood hesitating, torn by conflicting emotions, not knowing what to do.

"If you do not come back, I shall die," she said simply.

As they stood thus, her flute slipped from her re laxed fingers and fell upon the floor. He picked it up and gave it to her, partly through the born instinct of the gentleman, which no familiarity with barbarism can entirely crush out, partly through the tendency in time of intense mental strain to relieve the mind by doing any little thing.

She took it, lifted it to her lips, and, still looking at him, began to play. The melody, strange, untaught, artless as the song of a wood-bird, was infinitely sor rowful and full of longing. Her very life seemed to breathe through the music in fathomless yearning. Cecil understood the plea, and the tears rushed un bidden into his eyes. All his heart went out to her in pitying tenderness and love; and yet he dared not trust himself to speak.

"Promise to come back," said the music, while her dark eyes met his; " promise to come back. You are my one friend, my light, my all; do not leave me to perish in the dark. I shall die without you, I shall die, I shall die!"

Could any man resist the appeal? Could Cecil, of all men, thrilling through all his sensitive a