“Yes, yes. What is the storm to me? A few miles only divide me from my home and loved ones. And I shall see them before I sleep. Oh, Atkins, how I have looked forward to this hour of my home coming: I have thought of it during the days and nights when I lay chained in an Indian hut among the Himalayas; I have thought of it when pacing the lonely deck at midnight under the stars. I have prayed for this hour as the crowning joy of my life. Almost home! It seems as if my soul would burst with rapture. My home! My wife! My child! The sweetest, holiest words in our language!” The baronet’s face glowed with a joyous radiance. Atkins was sick at heart. “I have been careful that no hint of my return as from the dead should arrive before me,” continued Sir Harold. “I came home under the name of Harold Hunlow. Only Major Archer and his family, besides yourself, know that I still live. At the hotel I registered the name of Hunlow, and no one but a new waiter I had never seen before saw my face. The surprise of my family will be complete. Come, Atkins, let us be off. I have a cab waiting at the hotel.” “I--I wouldn’t go to-night, Sir Harold,” said Atkins feebly. Something in his tones alarmed the baronet. “Why not?” he demanded. “I--I have taken it for granted that they are all well at home. Octavia--Neva--how are they? Speak!” Atkins arose, twisting his hands nervously together. His pallor frightened Sir Harold, who arose also. “What is it?” he whispered. “They--they are not dead?” “No, Sir Harold--no!” “Thank God! You frightened me, Atkins. I can bear anything, now that I know they are alive. What has happened? They have not met with an accident? Don’t tell me, Atkins, that my wife, my beautiful young wife, is insane through grief at my supposed death?” Atkins groaned aloud. “No, no,” he said, grating his teeth and clenching his hands. “It is not that.” “What is it then? Speak, for God’s sake. The suspense is killing me!” “I have bad news for you, Sir Harold,” said the solicitor tremblingly. “Let me give you a glass of wine--” Sir Harold clutched the solicitor’s arm, his burning eyes fixed upon the solicitor’s face. “Speak!” he said hoarsely. “I will, if you will sit down.” Sir Harold dropped silently into his chair. “Lady Wynde,” said Atkins--“Lady Wynde--how can I speak the words to you who love her so, Sir Harold--She has married again!” Every vestige of color died from the baronet’s face, and he lay back upon his chair fainting. Atkins rang for water and brandy. He bathed Sir Harold’s face and chafed his hands, and poured brandy down his throat, the tears on his own cheeks. Presently Sir Harold gasped for breath, and looked up at him with a dazed and stunned expression. “Say that over again, Atkins,” he said feebly. “I don’t quite understand.” “I said, Sir Harold,” said the solicitor, every word giving him a pang, “that Lady Wynde had married again.” Sir Harold gave a strange cry, and covered his face with his hands.