"I think he must be dead," he said in a low voice. "Then I began to try to pay my creditors, and retrieve my business. I struggled on alone, madam, for twelve weary years, during which I never spent an unnecessary penny—only to fail at last. I paid seventeen and sixpence in the pound, and—I must pay the other half-crown before I die. That is what I am saving for, Mrs. Cloudesley. I can allow myself no comforts until that is done."
May was crying, and made no answer.
"God bless you, madam, for those tears!" said Trulock, earnestly. "You're sorry for Annie;—yes, and you would have learned to love her—you would have loved Annie."
"I'm crying for you, not for her," May said, looking up. "I'm so sorry; yours has been a sad, sad life. Annie is at rest."
"Yes," he answered, "Annie is in heaven; she was a saint, if ever there was one."
"Ah!" said May, smiling. "How that takes the sting out of the sorrow! But will you let me tell my husband what you have told me? And I will try to see you soon again, and tell you if he thinks that you are doing right now. Gilbert is so upright—he would know."
"You may tell him, but no one else, madam, if you please. I do not care to defend myself; let people believe Mrs. Short if they like. I care nothing for their opinion."
"Yet you must be very lonely."
"I don't care for company; I feel as if every one was a stranger, and must always be so—and I think I don't wish it otherwise."
"Mr. Trulock, that is not the way to grow Christmas roses."