"I cannot understand Manuel," she said, with a puzzled expression in
her eyes; "he is so strange, sometimes gay--almost too gay; then he
relapses into a gloomy, brooding apathy, from which even the children
have no power to rouse him."
"But you have. He is never too morose to have a smile for you. I
think, sometimes, he feels lonely. You are bound to him, yet your
heart is as unresponsive to his passionate love as if you were
strangers," Savitre said, thoughtfully.
"Do you think so, Savitre? I am indeed sorry; but you know how
impossible it is to forget my first love. I like Manuel, but beyond
that, affection--except for my darlings--is dead; buried in Luiz's
grave."
"Hush! here comes Manuel," Savitre whispered, warningly.
It was indeed Manuel, older and graver-looking than of yore, with a
deep melancholy in his eyes, brought there only by intense suffering.
Savitre, on his entrance, softly glided from the room, leaving husband
and wife alone.
"Lianor," he began, a bright smile lighting up his face as he bent to
kiss her fair brow, "I have been thinking, and am resolved to quit
India and return to Portugal. I have been here long enough. Don't you
think that will be pleasant, dearest?"
"Nothing would please me more," Lianor cried, delightedly.
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