"Did you ever try to get any?" she asked. "I have always thought it very strange that we should never have heard anything about you."
"I went to the house once, some weeks after you had gone," said John, "but the man in charge was out, and the maid could tell me nothing."
"A note I wrote you at the time of your father's death," she said, "we found in my small nephew's overcoat pocket after we had been some time in California; but I wrote a second one before we left New York, telling you of our intended departure, and where we were going."
"I never received it," he said. Neither spoke for a while, and then:
"Tell me of your sister and brother-in-law," he said.
"My sister is at present living in Cambridge, where Jack is at college," was the reply; "but poor Julius died two years ago."
"Ah," said John, "I am grieved to hear of Mr. Carling's death. I liked him very much."
"He liked you very much," she said, "and often spoke of you."
There was another period of silence, so long, indeed, as to be somewhat embarrassing. None of the thoughts which followed each other in John's mind was of the sort which he felt like broaching. He realized that the situation was getting awkward, and that consciousness added to the confusion of his ideas. But if his companion shared his embarrassment, neither her face nor her manner betrayed it as at last she said, turning, and looking frankly at him:
"You seem very little changed. Tell me about yourself. Tell me something of your life in the last six years."