She made no answer; in her utter astonishment and swift joy she could only stand and gaze, speechless.
"Norine, I have come back again. Have you no word of welcome for your old friend?"
Still she did not speak—still she stood looking as though she never could look enough—only trembling a little now.
"I have startled you," he said very gently, "coming so unexpectedly upon you like a ghost in the moonlight. But I am no spirit, Norine—shake hands."
He leaned across the closed gate, and took both her hands in his warm, cordial clasp. They were like ice. Her eyes were fixed almost wildly upon his face, her lips were trembling like the lips of a child about to cry.
"Won't you speak then, Norine? Have I startled you so much as that? I did not expect to see you or any one at this hour, but I had to come. Do you hear, Norry? I had to come. And now that we have met, Norine, won't you say you are glad to see me again?"
She drew away her hands suddenly—covered her face and broke into a passion of tears. Perhaps she had grown hysterical, her heart had been full before he came, and it needed only this shock to brim over. He opened the gate abruptly and came to her side.
"Speak to me, Norine! My own—my dearest, don't cry so. Look up, and say you are not sorry I have come!"
She looked up at him, forgetful of Richard Gilbert and her wedding day, forgetful of loyalty and truth.
"I thought you had forgotten me," she said. "I thought I would never see you again. And oh, I have been so miserable—so miserable!"