At first she heard nothing but the restless moving of the air, which merely emphasized her loneliness, then she caught the pulsation of slow regular breathing.
She started to her feet.
She snatched up the lantern and quickly mounted to the bier. She looked sharply down into the dead face.
Silent, with its white hair, and worn lines, it rested on its white pillows.
No sound came from the cold still lips.
Yet, while her eyes were riveted on them, once more the longed-for voice breathed her name. "Margaret!"
It came from behind her.
She turned quickly.
There in the moonlit doorway, with a sad, compassionate smile on his strong, young face—as if it were yesterday they had parted—stood the man she remembered so well.
Her bewildered eyes turned from the silent, unfamiliar face among the satin cushions, to the living face in the moonlight,—the young, brown eyes, the short, brown hair falling forward over the left temple, the erect, elastic figure, the strong loving hands stretching out to her.