Chapter Forty Seven.
Brother—Lover.
Trembling, her eyes dilated with horror, Louise Vine stood watching the dimly-seen pleading face for some moments before her lips could form words, and her reason tell her that it was rank folly and superstition to stand trembling there.
“Harry!” she whispered, “alone? yes.”
“Hah!” he ejaculated, and thrusting in his hands he climbed into the room.
Louise gazed wildly at the rough-looking figure in sea-stained old pea-jacket and damaged cap, hair unkempt, and a hollow look in eye and cheek that, joined with the ghastly colourless skin, was quite enough to foster the idea that this was one risen from the grave.
“Don’t be scared,” he said harshly, “I’m not dead after all.”
“Harry! my darling brother.”