To both it seemed like the shock of a life-time—that sudden rencontre; and to the man it was more startling then to the girl, for he had long sorrowed over the fate of Kathleen Carew, believing her dead.
Yet here stood this slight girl whose voice had so thrilled him a few minutes ago gazing at him with Kathleen Carew's eyes, looking out of Kathleen Carew's face.
Was she ghost or human?
Was she a phantom of his brain, this slight, pale girl?
He had thought of her so often, he had mourned her so passionately, that perhaps his brain was distraught—perhaps the vision was the figment of a mind diseased.
But suddenly the moan died away on the sweet, red lips; the hunted look faded from the somber dark eyes and was succeeded by a look of joy as she faltered:
"Ralph Chainey!"
His hand had slipped from her arm in the first shock of recognition. Now he hastily put it back and pressed it to see if it was real flesh and blood or only a phantom woman. He muttered, hoarsely:
"Kathleen Carew, are you ghost or human?"
Kathleen's dark-eyes laughed radiantly into his.