“Oh, is it possible—can it be possible?” murmured Em. to herself. Then with an effort she sat up and said: “Forgive me, madam; but it is indeed as if one had returned from heaven to earth. It is not a dream? You are——” “I am Emolyn Wyndeworth, my dear, and more convinced than ever of the fond and faithful remembrance in which I have been held since the mere announcement of my name and presence has produced such a effect upon you, who had no personal recollection of me,” said the lady in a soothing tone as she passed her hand caressingly over the girl’s bright ringlets. “Ah, how happy I shall be when—when I can realize all this; but now—now I am afraid of waking! Oh, I am, indeed, madam!” added Em. with a nervous little laugh. The lady dropped her hand and left the room for a few moments, and then returned, bringing a glass of wine which she made Em. drink. “You are almost hysterical over this surprise, my dear,” she said as she placed the empty glass on the table. “I was never so before. I should not have been so under any other surprise—but—to see one whom I had always been taught to reverence as a patron saint, or a guardian angel, standing bodily before me—oh! you know, madam, it seemed as if—_almost_ as if a seraph had descended from heaven! Oh, how delighted, how past all delight my dear mother will be! And father, too! And Mrs. Whitlock! And Aunt Monica! Poor old Aunt Monica! Oh, I know, you used to know her! And, oh! _how_ dearly she loved you! How fondly she talks of you to this day! Oh! what a jubilee there’ll be when I go home with my news—if I don’t wake up first and find it all a wild dream!” exclaimed Em., much revived by the wine she had tasted. “My impetuous child, how you run on! Uttering names that seemed to have been once as familiar as ‘household words’ to me, in that long past existence out of which I have died and risen! ‘Whitlock!’ ‘Monica!’ One was my dear old guardian’s housekeeper, and the other his nurse in his last fatal illness! But what can you know of them?” “Why, they _live_ with us—Mrs. Whitlock ever since I can remember, and old Aunt Monica ever since we moved out here. Father takes care of them both. And they both love you and mourn you, dear lady! And, _oh!_ how enraptured they will be, past all expression, when they find out that—that—you still live in this world and they may look on your face again!” “Is it possible they are so near me? Old Aunt Monica, I shall be happy to see again. But for Mrs. Whitlock, I scarcely remember her, except as my guardian’s attendant. It seems strange that she should remember me at all. She saw so little of me.” “Oh, dear lady, you were so good, believe me, many, many poor people remember you whom you most likely have forgotten.” “Now may Heaven forbid!” breathed the Lady of Edengarden in a low, earnest tone. Then, speaking to Em., she said: “My child, you must not flatter _any_ one, and least of all _me_.”