"And she has a husband," added Harold between his teeth, ignoring what the other side of the way might mean.
"Yes, my dear, I know he is not a nice man, but you are her only one, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"And I know what that is—not that I ever married anyone but your poor uncle, nor ever would, not if the new rector had asked me, which many expected and even paid their compliments to me on, but I always said 'No, no.' But you'll go and see her, my dear, and comfort her poor heart, which, you may depend, is longing and craving after you, my dear; and all the more if her new gentleman isn't quite as he should be."
Harold could not persuade himself to bring out any answer but "I'll see about it;" and when we were alone, he said with a sigh, "If I should be any comfort to her poor heart."
"I should think there was no doubt of that."
"I am afraid of committing murder," answered Harold, almost under his breath, over the trunk.
"Oh, Harold! Not now."
"I don't know," he said.
"You have not seen him for ten years. He may be altered as much as you."