“Ill news, I fear,” said his friend gently.
“Not more ill than one who has known the world for half a century should look for; naught more novel than falsehood, and treachery, and covetousness, and wrong.”
“Nay, friend Myles, nay, my brother; ‘Charity suffereth long and is kind’”—
“Suffereth long, but opens her eyes at last. However, I will not burden you with mine own griefs, Elder; you had somewhat to say to me.”
“Yes, but I fear me ’tis in an ill-chosen time. Your spirit is much disturbed.”
“Not so much that I cannot heed my duty, sir.”
“Nay, Myles, take not so stern a tone with your ancient friend and constant well-wisher. I fain would touch the tender spot that well I know lies deep within your heart. I would speak of our children, Captain.”
“Ah! and you have heard from Rastle?”
“Yes. A long letter, the full outpouring of his heart, and still the song has but one refrain, the story but one theme. Can you guess it, friend?”