man. She went
upstairs to her husband's room. That too was empty. But there was
something lying on the table--a photograph. She took it up. Her face
became white suddenly and swiftly. She shrieked aloud, then drooped the
picture and fell fainting to the ground. For the photograph was nothing
less than that of her husband, dead in his white graveclothes, his
hands composed, his eyes closed, his cheek waxen.

The cry fell upon the ears of Lord Harry, who was in the garden below.
He rushed into the house and lifted his wife upon the bed. The
photograph showed him plainly what had happened.

She came to her senses again, but seeing her husband alive before her,
and remembering what she had seen, she shrieked again, and fell into
another swoon.

"What is to be done now?" asked the husband. "What shall I tell her?
How shall I make her understand? What can I do for her?"

As for help, there was none: the nurse was gone on some errand; the
doctor was arranging for the funeral of Oxbye under the name of Lord
Harry Norland; the cottage was empty.

Such a fainting fit does not last for ever. Iris came round, and sat
up, looking wildly around.

"What is it?" she cried. "What does it mean?"

"It means, my love, that you have returned to your husband." He laid an
arm round her, and kissed her again and again.

"You are my Harry!--living!--my own Harry?"

"Your own Harry, my darling. What else should I be?"

"Tell me then, what does it mean--that picture--that horrid
photograph?"

"That means nothing--nothing--a freak--a joke of the doctor's. What
could it mean?" He took it up. "Why, my dear, I am living--living and
well. What should this mean but a joke?"

He laid it on the table again, face downwards. But her eyes showed that
she was not satisfied. Men do not make jokes on death; it is a sorry
jest indeed to dress up a man in grave-clothes, and make a photograph
of him as of one dead.

"But you--you, my Iris; you are here--tell me how and why--and when,
and everything? Never mind that stupid picture: tell me."

"I got your letter, Harry," she replied.

"My letter?" he repeated. "Oh! my dear, you got my letter, and you saw
that your husband loved you still."

"I could not keep away from you, Harry, whatever had happened. I stayed
as long as I could. I thought about you day and night. And at last
I--I--I came back. Are you angry with me, Harry?"

"Angry? Good God! my dearest, angry?" He kissed her passionately--n