“Anthony,” he said.
“Yes, Anthony. I knew it”; but she clung to him. “What did you see? What did you hear?”
“I saw him, but I could not hear anything.”
“Dead?”
“No, alive. Oh, yes, I saw him move—he raised his arm, he seemed to hold his hand to his eyes, and then—But, Emmie, I heard nothing. That’s what makes me so doubtful. Tell me what you think. No, don’t tell me—I can’t get rid of this agitation. I can’t think clearly.” Then it was as if the old man had suddenly convinced himself. “Why should I doubt? He is alive. My boy, my boy still lives. Some merciful power has sent me this message.”
“Yes, yes—that is what we will think. But, dear Mr. Dyke, you mustn’t stay here or you will catch cold.” And with her arm round him she led him back into his room.
He looked about him vaguely.
“Get back to bed now.”
“Yes, dear. But first I want to tell you all. I want to describe everything, for you to remember it. He seemed to be shading his eyes with his hand, looking forward. And when he dropped his hand I saw the face very bright, with a very strong light upon it—like the strongest sunshine. He wasn’t alone, Emmie. There was some one else, on the ground by his feet. And then he seemed to be calling out—though I couldn’t hear. Yet I seemed to understand that he was calling to me—asking me to wait for him—or to stay with him—not to desert him. Then, Emmie dear, though there was no sound to his voice, I spoke myself. I called to him to be quick, because I couldn’t wait. Then, immediately it was gone—and I felt I must go to you.”