"We speculated on the after-life when we were boys," answered Gerald; "but whenever I thought of you, you were not dead to me. I believed, as I hoped, that you lived and were prosperous."
"You thought of me, then? I am glad to know that. Gerald, I am truly pleased to see you."
"Not more than I am to see you."
"And you have really thought of me often; but you were always faithful."
"You have obtruded yourself upon me in the midst of the strangest scenes. There have been times, of course, when the affairs of life were most pressing, that you have not been present to my mind; but you have come back to me invariably, and sometimes in strangely-familiar connection with circumstances of which you could not possibly have had any knowledge, not knowing where I was, or what path of life I was pursuing."
"The same old Gerald," said Mr. Weston, pressing his friend's hand with affection; "and the same old way of talking."
"Not quite clear, eh? You used to say, 'Say that again, Gerald;' but you understand me now?"
"Perfectly."
Gerald laughed, and Mr. Weston laughed with him, without apparent cause, as he had often done in the time gone by. But there was something contagious in Gerald's laugh, and, indeed, in his whole manner; especially when he was serious, as he was now, he seemed to possess the power of compelling his friend to be of his humour.
"Perfectly, you say! Well, but I scarcely understand myself. That is so always with me when I generalise."