He turned involuntarily and looked at her. And then looked away again hastily. It might be dangerous just now. But that look, brief as it was, had shown him her glowing, downcast countenance.
"What was her name?"
"Clara. She was little more than a child--a gentle, loving child, unfit to encounter the blasts of the world. One, ruder than ordinary, struck her and carried her away."
"Did you love her very much?"
He paused, hesitated, and then turned to her again. "Am I to tell you, Mary Anne?"
"As you like," she whispered, the blushes deepening. "Of course not, if it be painful to you."
"I did not love her; taking the word in its truest extent. I thought I did, and it is only within a few months--yes, I may as well tell you all--that I have learnt my mistake."
Mary Anne Thornycroft glanced at him in surprise. "Only within a few months! How is that?"
"Because I have learnt to love another. To love--do you understand, Mary Anne?--to love. With my very heart and soul; with my best and entire being. Such love cannot come twice to any man, and it teaches him much. It has taught me, amidst other knowledge, that I liked my wife as one likes a dear child, but not otherwise."
Mary Anne Thornycroft's hand trembled as it lay upon his arm. In her bewilderment of feelings, in the tumultuous sensation born of this great love that was filling all her mind, she nearly lost command of her words, and spoke at random.