For a moment he thought that the woman before him could not be Crazy Lisbeth at all, and then he thought that the moonlight tricked him. But of one thing he was sure; be the cause what it might, he saw a Lisbeth magically and beautifully changed. Foolish and pathetic and middle-aged she had been only yesterday, but to-night love and joy had had their way with her for a little while and had transformed her almost into youth and comeliness again. Unconscious of Ted's watchful and hostile presence, as she had been from the first, she turned to Sheila with a simple and moving tenderness:
"Come," she said, opening her gate.
But Sheila stood motionless, her face soft with a pity that could no longer protect.
"Come," urged Lisbeth, "come, darling precious! This is home!"
But Sheila did not stir. "I—I can't," she answered gently.
"You can't? You can't? Oh, it's been a dream!—a dream!—a dream! You're not real—you're never real! I see you—and see you—and see you! But when I reach you, you're not real—not real! I believed it was different this time—but it's always the same! You're not real!"
And with that despairing cry, the Lisbeth whom Ted knew so well stood there before him again, old and foolish and piteous, whimpering softly and plucking at her ragged dress.
Sheila put her hand on the bent shoulder—bent to its long burden. "I am real," said the child in a clear, steadfast voice that somehow, penetrated Lisbeth's sad whimsies, "I am real!—and I'll come back!"
"You'll come back?" And Lisbeth ceased her whimpering and laid pleading hold on her. "You'll come back? I don't believe you're real now—I can't believe it any more! But I don't mind that if you'll come back anyway. You will? You promise?"
"I promise," answered Sheila. "If you are good—if you go straight into the house—I'll come back."