For a moment trees, path, figure, swam giddily before the young man's eyes. Then, as the mists cleared, he looked into a face pale as his own.
The basket she carried had slipped from her grasp, and she stood, hands clasped together, leaning against a tree.
"Morice!"
It was a faint whisper coming from white lips, but he heard it.
"Cécile!"
Did the pinched cheeks and hollow eyes tell their own tale?
It must have been so, for she was at his side the next moment.
"You are not dead?" she faltered, and touched his hand, half fearfully, as though she fancied the apparition would slip out of sight as she approached.
But he caught and held her fingers in no ghost-like touch.
"You are not dead?"