“Eben! oh! Eben!”
Hetty was the first to recover herself. Seeing with terror how rigid and pale her husband's face had become; how motionless, like one turned to stone, he stood—she hastened down the steps, and, taking him by the hand, said, in a trembling whisper:
“Oh, come into the house, Eben.”
Mechanically he followed her; she still leading him by the hand, like a child. Like a child, or rather like a blind man, he sat down in the chair which she placed for him. His eyes did not move from her face; but they looked almost like sightless eyes. Hetty stood before him, with her hands clasped tight. Neither spoke. At last Dr. Eben said feebly:
“Are you Hetty?”
“Yes, Eben,” answered Hetty, with a tearless sob. He did not speak again: still with a strange unseeing look, his eyes roved over her face, her figure. Then he reached out one hand and touched her gown; curiously, he lifted the soft gray serge, and fingered it; then he said again:
“Are you Hetty?”
“Oh, Eben! dear Eben! indeed I am,” broke forth Hetty. “Do forgive me. Can't you?”
“Forgive you?” repeated Dr. Eben, helplessly. “What for?”
“Oh, my God! he thinks we are both dead: what shall I do to rouse him?” thought Hetty, all the nurse in her coming to the rescue of the woman and wife.