“I am sure of it,” said he, taking for a moment the hand that she offered him. “If I had not been assured of it, should I be here to-day? I do not underrate the value of sympathy. I have felt better for the sympathy even of strangers. At Uganda--at Zanzibar--everywhere I got kind words; and aboard the steamer--God knows whether I should have landed or not if it had not been for the kind way some of my fellow passengers treated me. Ah! the world holds some good people! They took me out of myself--they made the world seem brighter--well, not brighter, but at least they made it seem less dark to me. When we separated in London yesterday the darkness seemed to fall upon me again. Ah, yes! I have felt what was meant by real sympathy; and yours is real, Agnes. I remember how good you were long ago. If you had been my sister you could not have taken a greater interest in me. And your father--ah, he died years ago, they told me last evening! You see, you were the first person for whom I inquired.” “That was so good of you,” she said quietly. There was no satirical note in the low tone in which she spoke. “Ah! Was it not natural?” he asked. “But I think that I was slightly disappointed to hear that you were still unmarried. I had fancied you now and again with your children about you; and I was ready with a score of stories for the youngsters. I wrote something to poor Dick about himself. I took it for granted that he too would have married and become surrounded with prattlers. Yes, I'm nearly sure that I mentioned your name in my letter to poor Dick.” “Your memory does not deceive you,” she said, and now there was a suggestion of satire in her voice, though he did not detect it. “Yes, your letter was brought to me by Mr. Fawcett. Why he should have brought it to me, I am sure you could hardly tell.” “He may have thought that it contained something that should be seen only by the most intimate friend of the family,” he suggested. “You see, poor Dick's will mentioned you prominently. That probably impressed Fawcett. But you read what I wrote? You saw that I had not forgotten you--I mentioned your name?” “Yes, you mentioned my name in a way that showed me you had forgotten me,” she replied. “I don't seem to understand you to-day,” he said. “I suppose when one has been for eight or nine years without hearing a word of English spoken, one degenerates.” “Alas! alas!” she said. Then he went away. CHAPTER XIV |She had, of course, left her seat to shake hands with him, and when he had gone she did not sit down. She stood where he had left her, in the centre of the room, with her eyes turned listlessly toward the window. She watched him buttoning up his coat as he walked quickly down the drive. A breath of wind whisked and whirled about him the leaves that had fallen since morning.