And Joan's clear eyes looked into his; Joan's voice was in his ear.
"Oh, John, will it be long?" he heard her say. And his own voice, young and strong, replied:
"No, no, my dear—not long. How could I let it be long, when I shall be working for you? When I have made enough money I shall come and claim you. Your father is quite right not to allow a formal engagement till then. But we understand each other, Joan—my Joan!"
Strange! How the years had rolled away, and the world seemed full again, as it had seemed then, of Joan—Joan, and only Joan!
The vision slowly faded; the walls of the dull room returned to their places, the noise of the irritating clock on the mantelpiece replaced the soft voices of the wood-pigeons; he was an old man again, an old man who was alone—and dying!
But Joan had not forgotten. Joan's letter lay upon his bed. She had remembered for forty years; whilst he had forgotten everything, except the work to which he was a slave.
He picked up the letter once more and read the postscript first—
"Did you never get the letter I wrote you more than thirty years ago?"
Had he received it? What then had happened to it? A puzzled frown puckered his brow, as he struggled to recall the long past incident.
"I remember now," he exclaimed suddenly and aloud—"I remember! She wrote to me when I was in the midst of a press of work! Her letter was filed for reference—my Joan's letter filed for reference!"