d as he had sinned. He had
crept away and hidden in the dark when she most needed him.
Defenseless, she had in all good faith married another man. And because
of his weakness she had sinned against the law. She had done a thing
which, if known, would ruin her life in the world she knew. It was his
fault, not hers, yet she had suffered for it, and now she would suffer
more than she had suffered yet. If she had thought she loved the dead
man, from this moment she would hate the living one, who had deceived
her.

Yet there was one hope. Perhaps he was even more changed than he had
supposed, and if he went away instantly without speaking, she might not
recognize him. He stepped back, on the impulse, but she held out her
hands, as he turned to go, and cried to him piteously.

"Oh, if you are a dream," she said, in a low, strange voice, "stay! I
beg of you to stay."

Still he did not speak. He could not, now. He waited.

"It's all a dream," she whispered. "I know that. Coming here--to the
empty house--finding my own picture--and then--then--when I looked for
John Sanbourne, seeing you--my love! O God, let me never wake up in
this world. If this could only be--what they call death!"

The word broke, to a sob, and she swayed towards him, deathly white.
Denin sprang forward, and caught her in his arms--his wife--the first
time he had ever held her so. Then, because he could think no longer,
but only feel, he kissed her on hair and eyes and lips, and strained
her to him with every worshiping name he had given her in his heart
since their wedding and parting day.

She lay so still against him, that it seemed she must have fainted; but
her eyes opened, drowned in his, as he kissed her on the lips. He saw
the blue glitter, as if two sapphires blocked his vision, and suddenly
his face was wet with Barbara's tears. "Have I died?" she whispered.
And the tears which were damp on his face were salt on his lips as he
whispered back, "No."

He remembered how he, too, had once thought himself dead, and then had
crept slowly back to life. He had seen Barbara then, as in a dream
within a dream. Now she, too, was passing through this experience. He
held her tight. He could not let her suffer as he had suffered when he
came back to life! Yet what could he do for her, after all? The sense
of his helplessness was heavy upon him.

"Forgive me," he said, "Barbara, darling! I never meant this to happen.
The first I heard of you--after--was