She cast a sidelong, tremulous look upward to his face. He did not smile as she feared he would. It pleased him to hear of the friend, and the tone in which the friend was mentioned pleased him. He was glad there was some one in the world, the name of whose habitation had power to move the slumbering fountain of young life within her; he was glad that in this present world she had some other tie than the new relationship which bound her to himself, and in his delicate kindness he looked and spoke gravely, to encourage her to confide in him. “And you would like me to tell you about it. Would not reading do as well?” “No, no,” repeated Lilias; “the book does not live--you do not see the eyes which saw those things you want to hear of, as I see yours, Mossgray, and--the place is fine, is it not?” “I think so,” was the answer; “yes, I remember that; but, Lilias, when I was there, I was sick at heart--sick with anxiety at first--and sick when I came away, with hope deferred--I should say with hope extinguished. The calamity that maketh the heart sick, clouds a fair landscape sadly, Lilias, and when I think of that beautiful eastern country, I think of it as the grave of my friend.” “Did he die?” asked Lilias, in the tremulous low voice, which for the few preceding moments had been changed. Mossgray paused. Thirty years had elapsed since colder men decided Hew Murray’s fate, thirty years without a sign or token, the faintest that hope could build on; and yet the old man hesitated to say he died. “Lilias, I cannot tell. He was my dear friend; we were close brethren in our youth; do you think he can have lived these thirty years, and given no sign?” “No, Mossgray,” said Lilias, “oh, no, no! I do not think it can be hard to die; but to live while your dearest friends think you are dead--no, no--it could not be!” The old man sighed. “Then he is dead,” he said. There was a pause. “And this friend of yours,” resumed Mossgray, at last, “he likes Bombay, Lilias?” The light came again more timidly. “I think so--I mean, he does not _like_ it--it is not home--but--” “But he thinks he will prosper there, and he is young, and has good cause for his toil?” Lilias looked at her guardian shyly again; but there was no ghost of raillery on the kind face of Mossgray; he would have her think cheerily of the young hopes of the labourer over the sea. And Lilias looked away far into the distant air, and answered with a voice so full and rich in its low music, that Mossgray scarcely knew it for hers,-- “And for his mother’s sake.” CHAPTER IX. “She is like that harp the winds do play upon; mark her well. She shall tell you what she dreams unwittingly, for her face is no mask--nothing but a veil, and under it you shall see her heart beat.”--OLD PLAY.