"Neil, Neil," she said, stretching out her hands; "is it really you!"
I came across, and taking her in my arms very gently kissed her forehead.
"My little Joyce," I said. "My dear, brave little Joyce."
She buried her face in my coat, and I felt her hand moving up and down my sleeve.
"Oh," she sobbed, "if I had only known where to find you before! Ever since you escaped I have been hoping and longing that you would come to me." Then she half pushed me back, and gazed up into my face with her blue, tear-stained eyes. "Where have you been? What have they done to you? Oh, tell me—tell me, Neil. It's breaking my heart to see you so different."
For a moment I hesitated. I would have given much if I could have undone the work of the last few minutes, for even to be revenged on George I would not willingly have brought my wretched troubles and dangers into Joyce's life. Now that I had done so, however, there seemed to be no other course except to tell her the truth. It was impossible to leave her in her present agony of bewilderment and doubt.
Pulling up one of the chairs I sat down, drawing her on to my knee.
"If I had known it was you, Joyce," I said, "I should have let George go to the devil before I followed him here."
"But why?" she asked. "Where should you go to if you didn't come to me?"
"Oh, my poor Joyce," I said bitterly; "haven't I brought enough troubles and horrors into your life already?"