"Mine after life! What is mine after life?
My day is closed! The gloom of night is come!
A hopeless darkness settles o'er my fate."—JOANNA BAILLIE.
"Willard! Willard! Willard!"
With his own name breathed in his ears by the voice he never expected to hear again; with the small, fair face, the deep blue eyes, and waving golden hair of Christie bending over him, Willard Drummond lay scarcely daring to breathe, unable to speak, gazing with wild, wondering, incredulous eyes upon the angel-face he had never expected to behold on earth more.
"Willard! Willard! My own Willard! Only say you know me! only speak to me once more before I die!" was the wild cry that sighed in his ear in the tones of that never-to-be-forgotten voice.
He pressed his hands to his forehead, like one in a dream.
"Am I mad?" he said, slowly; "or am I dead, and see Christie again in the world of spirits?"
"Willard! Willard! we both live! Oh, Willard, thank Heaven you were spared the guilt of my death! Oh, Willard! I am not dead; do not, do not look at me so wildly!"
"Can this be only the delirium of a dream?" he said, passing his hand over his brow, in the same troubled and bewildered way.
No, it was not a dream! No phantom of the imagination ever could have clasped him with such yearning, clinging arms; ever could have held his head on such a warm, throbbing breast; ever could have looked into his face with such passionate, undying love; ever could have showered upon him such passionate caresses.
He awoke to the reality at last. Springing up in bed where he lay, he gazed upon her as if doubting the evidence of his senses.