OUT of the world of phantoms, I came one day into the familiar old work-a-day world again.
It was a world of softly-tempered light and shade. I became, at first, vaguely conscious of two open windows half veiled by lace curtains, and on each broad window-sill there stood a quaint old red-and-blue vase, holding roses and myrtle. Above a high chimney-piece hung a faded piece of crewelwork, framed and glazed, and representing (as I discovered afterwards) the Walk to Emmaus, and below the picture was a formidable row of medicine-bottles, some of them nearly empty.
I must, I suppose, have uttered some inarticulate words when I first saw these things around me. Anyhow, two persons, one on the right side of the bed and one on the left, rose quietly and bent over me.
One of these two faces, framed in an old-fashioned cap, was rosy and wrinkled like an apple from a store-room. The other was young and comely, although the kind eyes looked upon me through a mist of tears, and the pleasant lips were trembling.
It was Marian Bailey's face; but never before had I seen the calm Marian so deeply moved.
"How did you come here, Marian?" was the first question I asked.
I did not even know where "here" was. I could not tell how I came to be lying in this sunny old-world room, nor why all those bottles were ranged upon the mantelpiece. And yet I had an indistinct notion that Marian must have had some trouble in finding me.
"Never mind now, dear," said my friend, soothingly. "You have been ill, and mustn't talk much. But you are going to get well soon, and be very happy."
"Very happy." As she uttered those words I began to collect my scattered thoughts. What did happiness mean? It has a separate and distinct meaning for every human being who has ever tasted it. To me it meant life with Ronald, loving him and being entirely beloved in return.
But that kind of happiness could never again be mine. My song was ended; my tale was told. I suffered acutely under the first pangs of remembrance.