Was it an idle fancy? Nameless thought he saw something like a ray of intelligence flit across that stricken face.
"It is I, Carl Raphael, your pupil, your son!"
As though the sound of that voice had penetrated even the sealed consciousness of hopeless idiocy, the aged artist slightly inclined his head, and there was a strange tremulousness in his glance.
"Carl Raphael, your son!" repeated Nameless, and clutched the hands of the artist.
Again that tremulousness in the glance of the artist, and then,—as though a film had fallen from his eyes,—his gaze was firm, and bright, and clear. It was like the restoration of a blind man to sight. His gaze traversed the room, and at length rested on the face of Nameless.
"Carl!" he cried, like one, who, awaking from a troubled dream, finds, unexpectedly, by his bed a familiar and beloved face—"Carl, my son!"
Mary heard that voice; it roused her from her slumber. Starting up, she pressed her father's hands.
"O, Carl, Carl, he knows you! Thank God! thank God!"
"Mary," said the father, gazing upon her earnestly, like one who tries to separate the reality of his waking hours from the images of a past dream.
First upon one face, then upon the other, he turned his gaze, meanwhile, in an absent manner, joining the hand of Mary and the hand of Carl.