'I do not think I have that pleasure,' says he, 'but I should like to speak to her,' thinking to reprove her for her carelessness in letting the child wander about so far away.
'Vis way,' says the little girl catching hold of his hand, and turning down a path among the tombstones, 'Mummy always comes to a little tiny grave.'
Paul goes with her, wondering why he does so. When, why is it? that she is taking him to the grave of his.... And, good heavens! the person the child calls 'Mummy' is kneeling beside it, her head bent, apparently not hearing their approach.
'Oh, Mummy look,' cries the child, 'look what bootiful flowers me's gottened, him wouldn't let me get them meself. Look at him, Mummy,' she urges as the woman still kneels with lowered head, 'him's name is Paul.'
She raises her head at the name, and he starts back on seeing her face and looks at her for a moment with astonishment.
'Clotilde,' at length he says, and his voice is low, 'you here.'
Her head is once more bowed—
'You here,' he repeats, 'here at the grave of your child and'—with a slight pause 'mine. It is four years since I saw you last, and now to meet you like this.'
No sound comes from the kneeling figure. 'Where is ... he?' Paul asks in a hoarse unnatural voice.
'Dead,' she whispers.