"Your 'rascal' Peggy."
Bartol certainly started at this reply, which conveyed an expression of mirth, but his questions continued formal.
"What is your will with me?"
"Mamma is here—and Walter."
"Can they speak?"
"They will try."
Again silence fell upon the room—a silence so profound that every insect's stir was a rude interruption. At length another whisper, clearer, louder, made itself heard: "Alexander, be happy. I live."
"Who are you?"
"Your wife."
"You say so. Can you prove your identity?"