‘Will you never, never speak to me again, my darling, my darling!’ I heard the words too plainly to mistake or forget them. ‘Will you never speak to me again! Year after year, as the day comes round, I have prayed to God to grant me but one sweet word—one word to tell me of your love! Oh, my darling, my darling, have I prayed in vain? Will those lips never again open with a smile, those eyes never again look into mine, even when I come to you on my knees, as I do this Christmas morning!’ These strange words reproached me. Into what sacred precincts had I intruded? What heart-breaking grief was I desecrating? Suddenly the tone of voice changed. The sad pathos gave way to accents of joy. ‘See! see, my beloved one; here are gifts worthy of a queen. Did I not tell you the time would come when all our struggles would be over; when there would be no more fighting for very bread; no more daily care; no more dread of the future; no fears for success, because it would be already mine! Ah, Gertrude, my wife, my darling, you were good and patient to me in those days. If the clouds were dark, your eyes were always bright; if the heavens were overcast, your smile drove away the storm; your voice was the music of my life, your ceaseless trust was my lodestar. But all has changed. Those days have passed. I am rich now; they say I am famous. The day is now too short for my work, and the night too short for rest. And yet I need rest. I feel I cannot live much longer if I may not rest. My brain is ever reeling with its weariness, yet I cannot sleep. Night after night is one long vigil. No sleep, no rest, no peace! I have been waiting for this night, for you, my love, for you! And now the hour has come. It is Christmas morning.—Hark! already I hear the sound of the Christmas bells. Ah! no wonder, for my wife, my beloved, has come back to me at last—come back to me from the dead!’ In feverish excitement, I listened. But there was no answer—not a sound, when that trembling voice ceased, to break the stillness of the night. Presently, it began again. ‘They tell me it is thirty years ago. Nonsense! That is only a dream. It was yesterday—yesterday, that you spoke to me for the last time—yesterday, that you bade me good-bye, and kissed me when I went away. And to-day, you are as you were then. No change, no change, none at all. You are as young and as fair as when I first took your hand in mine and called you “wife.”’ Then there was a pause, and I was conscious of some movement beyond the tapestry behind which I was guiltily hiding.