Mrs. Crayford’s interest was strongly excited. She ventured to speak to him.
“Who is it you want to find?” she asked. “Your wife?”
He shook his head again.
“Who, then? What is she like?”
He answered that question in words. His hoarse, hollow voice softened, little by little, into sorrowful and gentle tones.
“Young,” he said; “with a fair, sad face—with kind, tender eyes—with a soft, clear voice. Young and loving and merciful. I keep her face in my mind, though I can keep nothing else. I must wander, wander, wander—restless, sleepless, homeless—till I find her! Over the ice and over the snow; tossing on the sea, tramping over the land; awake all night, awake all day; wander, wander, wander, till I find her!”
He waved his hand with a gesture of farewell, and turned wearily to go out.
At the same moment Crayford opened the yard door.
“I think you had better come to Clara,” he began, and checked himself, noticing the stranger. “Who is that?”
The shipwrecked man, hearing another voice in the room, looked round slowly over his shoulder. Struck by his appearance, Crayford advanced a little nearer to him. Mrs. Crayford spoke to her husband as he passed her.