She smiled again, and through the fog of his bewilderment and wonder he recognized the smile.
"Not mad, dear," she was saying. "Not mad. But it is very strange and wonderful at first, isn't it?"
"Strange and wonderful?" He put an uncertain hand to his face and passed it over his eyes. "Something has happened to me," he said. "To my eyes, I think. Things look strange. And—and there is Hilda!" He paused. "I'd been longing for Hilda."
She came a step nearer to him then. "I know," she murmured softly. "I know, dear. But that is past now."
There was an infinite tenderness in her tone, the tenderness of a mother who uplifts her child through a season of pain. He felt it, and it seemed to help him to clear away some of the dimness that besieged his senses.
"Then——" he began, but stayed himself. "You know," he said haltingly, "you died. Hilda died. I saw it: my arms were round her."
"Yes, dear," she answered. "Hilda died. But don't you understand?"
"No," he replied, but none the less understanding was dawning upon him. "How—how did you come here?" he asked.
"I came by the same way as you, John, dear," she said. As again she seemed to take one step toward him. "There is no other way."
"No other way!" He repeated the words twice.