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"Yes, it is a little sad," continued Revailloud. "But I think that toward
the end, life is always a little sad, if"--and the note of warning once
more was audible--"if one has no well-loved companion to share one's
memories."

The very resignation of Michel's voice brought Chayne to a yet deeper
compunction. The wistful melody still throbbed high and sank, and soared
again above the murmurs of the passers-by and floated away upon the clear
hot starlit night. Chayne wondered with what words it spoke to his old
guide. He looked at the tired sad face on which a smile of friendliness
now played, and his heart ached. He felt some shame that his own troubles
had so engrossed him. After all, Lattery was not greatly to be pitied.
That was true. He himself too was young. There would come other summers,
other friends. The real irreparable trouble sat there before him on the
other side of the iron table, the trouble of an old age to be lived out
in loneliness.

"You never married, Michel?" he said.

"No. There was a time, long ago, when I would have liked to," the guide
answered, simply. "But I think now it was as well that I did not get my


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