“It must be a very great country indeed,” said Lilias, slowly, “where the principal places are so far apart. Will you tell me where you were, Mossgray?”
The old man smiled.
“I could have told you long since, had I known you cared for such a subject. I was in Bombay, Lilias, and far into the interior beyond Bombay.”
“In Bombay!” There was another flush of interest—the tall slight figure had never looked so life-like, nor the form so animated.
“Yes, in Bombay—do you know anything of Bombay, Lilias?”
“No, no,” said Lilias, with a sudden blush, “I do not know—but I have heard—we had a friend once who went there.”
She cast a sidelong, tremulous look upward to his face. He did not smile as she feared he would. It pleased him to hear of the friend, and the tone in which the friend was mentioned pleased him. He was glad there was some one in the world, the name of whose habitation had power to move the slumbering fountain of young life within her; he was glad that in this present world she had some other tie than the new relationship which bound her to himself, and in his delicate kindness he looked and spoke gravely, to encourage her to confide in him.
“And you would like me to tell you about it. Would not reading do as well?”
“No, no,” repeated Lilias; “the book does not live—you do not see the eyes which saw those things you want to hear of, as I see yours, Mossgray, and—the place is fine, is it not?”
“I think so,” was the answer; “yes, I remember that; but, Lilias, when I was there, I was sick at heart—sick with anxiety at first—and sick when I came away, with hope deferred—I should say with hope extinguished. The calamity that maketh the heart sick, clouds a fair landscape sadly, Lilias, and when I think of that beautiful eastern country, I think of it as the grave of my friend.”