"In Naples?"
"Yes--with my family. Poor little thing! Windham, I have a story to tell about her that will make your heart bleed, if you have the heart of a man."
"My God!" cried Lord Chetwynde, in deep emotion; "what is it? Has any thing new happened?"
"Yes, something new--something worse than before."
"But _she_--_she_ is alive--is she not--she is well--she--"
"Thank God, yes," said Obed, not noticing the intense emotion of the other; "yes--she has suffered, poor little girl, but she is getting over it--and one day I hope she may find some kind of comfort. But at present, and for some time to come, I'm afraid that any thing like happiness or peace or comfort will be impossible for her."
"Is she very sad?" asked Lord Chetwynde, in a voice which was tremulous from suppressed agitation.
"The poor child bears up wonderfully, and struggles hard to make us think that she is cheerful; but any one who watches her can easily see that she has some deep-seated grief, which, in spite of all our care, may even yet wear away her young life. Windham, I've heard of cases of a broken heart. I think I once in my life saw a case of that kind, and I'm afraid that this case will--will come at last to be classed in that list."
Lord Chetwynde said nothing. He had nothing to say--he had nothing to do. His face in the few moments of this conversation had grown, ghastly white, his eyes were fixed on vacancy, and an expression of intense pain spread over his features. He walked along by Obed Chute's side with the uncertain step of one who walks in a dream.
Obed said nothing for some time. His own thoughts were reverting to that young girl whom he had left in Naples buried under a mountain of woe. Could he ever draw her forth from that overwhelming grief which pressed her down? They went on together through several streets without any particular intention, each one occupied with his own thoughts, until at last they found themselves at St. James's Park. Here they entered, and walked along one of the chief avenues.