gravely, as became men, rather than boys.

"All at once, from the little chapel at the corner of the large garden
belonging to the Missions Etrangeres, I heard the tinkle of the little
bell, announcing the elevation of the host. Down on his knees went
Clement, hands crossed, eyes bent down: while Urian stood looking on in
respectful thought.

"What a friendship that might have been! I never dream of Urian without
seeing Clement too--Urian speaks to me, or does something,--but Clement
only flits round Urian, and never seems to see any one else!"

"But I must not forget to tell you, that the next morning, before he was
out of his room, a footman of Madame de Crequy's brought Urian the
starling's nest."

"Well! we came back to England, and the boys were to correspond; and
Madame de Crequy and I exchanged civilities; and Urian went to sea."

"After that, all seemed to drop away. I cannot tell you all. However,
to confine myself to the De Crequys. I had a letter from Clement; I knew
he felt his friend's death deeply; but I should never have learnt it from
the letter he sent. It was formal, and seemed like chaff to my hungering
heart. Poor fellow! I dare say he had found it hard to write. What
could he--or any one--say to a mother who has lost her child? The world
does not think so, and, in general, one must conform to the customs of
the world; but, judging from my own experience, I should say that
reverent silence at such times is the tenderest balm. Madame de Crequy
wrote too. But I knew she could not feel my loss so much as Clement, and
therefore her letter was not such a disappointment. She and I went on