Her sympathy stirred his sorrow again, as sympathy so often does.
"I have buried my heart yonder, I think," said he, with a wave of his hand towards that spot amid the graves where the men were toiling with their shovels.

"He was the only living being that loved me." "Ah, surely not," said she, sorrow rather than reproach in her gentle voice.
"Indeed, yes.

Mine is a selfish grief.

It is for myself that I sorrow, for myself and my own loneliness.

It is thus with all of us.