"Two months; not longer. It was then I heard of my children's death, of my wife's long illness and her strange state. I was ill myself, and not fit to battle through any more scenes. Mr. Standish took me home until I had rested and recovered myself a little; and then I put on this disguise--not that much of that is necessary, for few people would recognize me, I believe--and came down here and took possession of Mrs. Williams's lodgings." Phillis looked at him with mute questioning in her eyes. She did not venture to put it into words, but he understood her: "Why have I waited so long, do you ask? and why am I living here within sight of my own house, a spy on my own threshold and wife? My dear Miss Challoner, there is a bitter reason for that! "Four years ago I parted from my wife in anger. There were words said that day that few women could forgive. Has she forgiven them? That is what I am trying to find out. Will the husband who has been dead to her all these years be welcome to her living?" His voice dropped into low vehemence, and a pallor came over his face as he spoke. Phillis laid her hand on his own. She looked strangely eager: "This is why you want my help. Ah! I see now! Oh, it is all right--all that you can wish! It is she who is tormenting herself, who has no rest day or night! When the thunder came that evening--you remember--we sat beside the children's empty beds, and she told me some of her thoughts. When the lighting flashed, her nerves gave way, and she cried out, in her pain, 'Did he forgive?' That was her one thought. Her husband,--who was up in heaven with the children,--did he think mercifully of her, and know how she loved him? It was your name that was on her lips when that good woman, Miss Mewlstone, hushed her in her arms like a child. Oh, be comforted!" faltered Phillis, "for she loves you, and mourns for you as though she were the most desolate creature living!" But here she paused, for something that sounded like a sob came to her ear, and looking round, she saw the bowed figure of her companion shaking with uncontrollable emotion,--those hard tearless sobs that are only wrung from a man's strong agony. "Oh, hush!" cried the girl, tenderly. "Be comforted: there is no room for doubt. There! I will leave you; you will be better by and by." And then instinctively she turned away her face from a grief too sacred for a stranger to touch, and walked down to the water, where the children had ceased playing, and listened to the baby waves that lapped about her feet. And by and by he joined her; and on his pale face there was a rapt, serious look, as of one who has despaired and has just listened to an angel's tidings. "Did I not say that you, and only you, could help me? This is what I have wanted to know: had Magdalene forgiven me? Now I need wait no longer. My wife and home are mine, and I must take possession of my treasures."