“My uncle Roland has no son.”
“How!”
“His son is dead.”
“How such a loss must grieve him!”
I did not speak.
“But is he sure that his son is dead? What joy if he were mistaken,—if the son yet lived!”
“Nay, my uncle has a brave heart, and he is resigned. But, pardon me, have you heard anything of that son?”
“I!—what should I hear? I would fain learn, however, from your uncle himself what he might like to tell me of his sorrows—or if, indeed, there be any chance that—”
“That—what?”
“That—that his son still survives.”