The first strong tide of emotion swept over that parted pair, meeting now so differently from how they had ever expected to meet again.
In the intensity of her joy, Eveline had closed her eyes, as if the light of day had proved too much for them; then their long lashes began to quiver, the lids unclosed, and the dear eyes were again turned wonderingly, searchingly, and lovingly on Evan Cameron's face.
She was free.
His pulses quickened at the thought. He had never ceased to love her—never ceased to wish she should be his. Sir Paget was dead—dead as Julius Cæsar—and he, Evan Cameron, had been in possession of a treasure without knowing it—the free and unfettered love of Eveline!
'Dead fires are difficult to re-light,' said she, waggishly, while twirling the ends of his moustache with her fairy fingers.
'But, Eveline, with me the fire was never dead—as I loved you with a love that partook of adoration in the dear past days at Dundargue, so I love you still!'
'My poor, dear Evan!' cooed the girl.
'Yes—poor indeed—without you.'
So true it was that 'the thing we look forward to,' as George Eliot says, 'often comes to pass; but never precisely as we have imagined it to ourselves.'
Could Eveline ever have looked forward to this when at Hurdell Hall—to see Evan Cameron in life again, and feel his tender kisses on her lips and eyes?