She walked slowly down the stairway and along the broad corridor, pausing before the door of the drawing-room, which was ajar. She swept back the heavy velvet portières with her white, jeweled hand, pausing on the threshold for an instant. One glance at the tall, commanding figure of the gentleman who had arisen hastily from his seat, and a low cry, half terror, and half joy, broke from her lips. Great God! Was her brain turning? Was she mad? Or did her eyes deceive her? Instead of the slender, dapper form of Raymond Challoner, she beheld the tall form that she had mourned over as having long since mingled with the dust. John Dinsmore it was, standing, alive and well, before her, in the flesh, surely--not a ghost, a phantom, a delusion. John Dinsmore reeled back as though some one had struck him a heavy blow, and one word fell from his white lips--“Queenie!” With an impetuous cry she sprang forward, holding out both of her hands, sobbing: “John, have you found it in your heart to forgive me? Surely it must be so, or--or you would not be here, you, whom I mourned as dead, believing the newspaper accounts which described the terrible wreck of the train on which you were a passenger.” She advanced to his side and touched his hand, murmuring in the old, sweet voice which had haunted him both night and day for long, weary months: “John, speak to me. Surely you are here to tell me that you forgive me.” And before he could divine her intention, she had flung herself on her knees before him. For half an instant he almost believed that he was the victim of a mad, wild nightmare. The woman he loved so madly, the woman who so cruelly deceived him, the woman whom he had tried in his heart to scorn, to hate, kneeling before him, asking his forgiveness! He almost fancied that he did not hear, or see aright. His first impulse is to gather her in his arms and rain all the passionate love that has been locked up in his almost broken heart upon her, but, just in the nick of time, he remembers that they are no longer lovers--that a barrier is between them. His face flushes, and his arms, that had stretched forth involuntarily to clasp her, fall heavily to his side. His teeth shut tightly together. He is angry with himself for showing his weakness. A hot flush mantles his brow. He folds his arms tightly over his chest and looks down at the beautiful girl kneeling before him, wondering vaguely where Raymond Challoner, her husband, is. At that moment he catches sight of her dress, which he had not noticed before--black crape, the emblem of widowhood--and his heart gives a spasmodic twitch. “Rise, madam,” he says, hoarsely. “Why should you kneel to me?”