The prisoner turned his eyes slowly on the kneeling girl. “That voice, sweet, like the flowers, comes from a great way off. I have dreamed such things before, but that is long ago. Even the dreams have left me at last. I suppose this drip, drip of water washed them from my brain. But they have come back to me now, and you, you! Why, you were my wife then. Don’t move. Don’t turn your eyes. I will not stir my hand. Don’t I know how such things fade away when one reaches out his arms.” “Oh, my father, if you would but touch me, or look into my face. Indeed, indeed I am—not your wife—but your child, your own little Marguerite.” The prisoner shook his head and a mournful smile crept over his wan face. “Now I know what a sweet snare it is; with that name you seek to win me to move or cry out; then all would melt away. Why, do you think I have forgotten because I am a prisoner? The child, my little Marguerite, could just reach my knees. You are—yes, you _are_ like my wife; no change, not a whit, since I married her; but you know that cannot be; people must grow old; and it is a hundred years since I came here. You must understand I can reason. People do grow crazy here sometimes, but I can reason yet. That is why dreams do not cheat me; but this is very sweet, very, very sweet.” Here the wretched man stooped forward and seemed to give himself up to the perfume of the flowers, weeping softly all the time. Marguerite looked on in piteous helplessness. At last she reached out her arms, clasped them around that bowed neck, and kissed the pallid forehead. A shudder ran through the prisoner. His feeble arms clasped themselves around the form that clung to him, and he murmured in a quiet, dreamy way: “Yes, yes; we will not disturb it. This is not the first time you have been here, but never, I think, never did you seem so real. Why, I can hear your heart beat; your very breath stirs my beard; and there is my guard, my good, kind guard, looking on. Does this light come from his lantern? Are you a real breathing woman? Tell me, my guard. I know your voice. If you will speak to me, I shall believe.” “My poor friend, it is your daughter; for years and years, she and her mother have been searching for you.” “My daughter, my own little Marguerite!” said the prisoner, holding Marguerite back with both hands, that he might look on her face. After perusing it eagerly for awhile, he shook his head and sighed heavily. “Is it her or her mother? I cannot tell them apart, and it wearies me to make it out. She was so little, you know.” “But years have made me a woman, father. You will not love me the less for that.” “Love you less! Why, what have I had to love but your shadow and hers, all these years—hundreds on hundreds, I think, only for awhile I lost the count.” “And all these years we have been searching for you. The letter you sent us——” “Hush! hush! we might do that good man harm; even my guard must not know of that.”