"Yes, indeed."
"We are old men now," said Mr. Hart, in a musing tone, in which there was a touch of solemnity, "and I can speak of it, and you can hear it, without pain. But tell me first about Clara."
His voice faltered as he uttered the name.
"She is dead," murmured Mr. Weston softly, "many, many years ago."
A cuckoo flew past them, singing as it flew, and seemed to echo plaintively, "Years ago!"
"You loved her, Richard?"
"With my whole soul, Gerald."
"I knew it, and I read, the announcement of your marriage in the papers. You were happy in your marriage?"
"Very, very happy. Our only grief during the first two years was that we had no children. But that blessing, which brought with it also the keenest sorrow of my life, was bestowed upon us after seven years. Clara placed a child in my arms, and died a few hours afterwards."
"It must have been a bitter blow, dear friend."