"But it was selfish, as love sometimes is, madame. I ought to have put her first. And I never thought what it would mean to her when I did what brought me to that place. Well, I've paid for it with my life. They've taken my life from me."
"You've many years before you, dear," whispered Mrs. Mumple.
"I have so few behind me," he said. "They've blotted out two-thirds of my life. Looking back on it now, I can't see it as it was. It seems long, but very empty—a great vacant space in my life, madame."
"Ah, but you've your home and your dear wife now—and we shall all be your friends."
How dull and cold her words seemed! Yet what else was there to say in face of the tragedy?
"I'm deeply grateful to her and to Heaven; but I—I have nothing left. It seems to me that the years have taken everything."
Mrs. Mumple put her hand down to his worn hand and caressed it.
"You'll be better by-and-by, dear," she said.
"I'm deadened," he persisted sadly.
"Don't feel like that," Sibylla implored. "Your life will come back to you in the sunshine and the country air. We shan't let you feel like that. Why, it's full of life here. There's a wedding to-morrow, Mr. Mumple! And another engaged couple—my brother and Miss Raymore! And you'll like my husband, and I'll bring my baby boy to see you."