I'm sure he's dead, or, if he isn't, it's almost worse.

And I was so--unkind to him the last time we were together.

I thought he was cross, but I know now he was only miserable; and I never dreamt I was never going to see him again, or I wouldn't have been so--so horrid!" Haltingly, pathetically, the poor little confession was gasped out through quivering sobs and the face of the man who listened was no longer a stony mask; it was alight and tender with a compassion too great for utterance.
He bent a little lower over her, pressing her head closer to his heart; and she heard its beating, slow and strong and regular, through all the turmoil of her distress.
"Poor child!" he said.

"Poor child!" It was all the comfort he had to offer, but it was more to her than any other words he had ever spoken.

It voiced a sympathy which till that moment had been wholly lacking--a sympathy that she desired more than anything else on earth.
"Don't go away, Eustace!" she begged presently.