"But you have friends."
"Yes; I have heard from them. I met an acquaintance yesterday."
"You have heard, then——" And she bent her eyes upon his face, with a look searching but full of kindness, as if studying his thoughts.
"Five years," she continued, "is a long time. Great changes may have taken place."
"Changes have taken place," said Morton.
"You have lost none of your intimate friends, as far as I know them; but some have left Boston, and some are married."
Morton did not look up; but an undefined expression passed across his face, like the shadow of a black cloud. When, a moment after, he raised his eyes, he saw those of Mrs. Ashland fixed upon him with the same earnest gaze as before. Such scrutiny from another would have been intolerable to him; but in her it gave him no uneasiness.
A servant entering changed for a time the character of their conversation. A quarter of an hour afterwards they were again alone, and Morton was seated near the window, when his friend approached him, her features kindling with a look of ill-suppressed feeling, laid her hand on his shoulder, and said, "Vassall,"—she had always before addressed him as Mr. Morton,—"my heart bleeds for you—for you and for Edith Leslie."
Morton looked up till he met her eyes. The surprise, the sudden consciousness that she was privy to his grief, the warm and heartfelt woman's sympathy that he read in every line of her face, were too much for his manhood, and he burst into tears.