Presently, far off through the house, comes the sound of impatient knocking. I cannot hear distinctly, so thick are the ancient oaken doors that divide me from the hall; but that it is a double knock I feel small doubt. This thought, so foreign, being forced upon me, after quite six months of perfect isolation, raises a nervousness that is near akin to fear, within my breast. I wait in palpitating expectancy for what is to follow. Perhaps the vicar, emboldened by my appearance in his church, has determined to strike while the iron, in his opinion, must be hot, and has ridden over to try and gain access to the one hardened sinner who disgraces his parish. Many conjectures rush through my mind, but this takes root. It must be so. Steps in the hall. Is it possible the man has admitted him on his own responsibility against my orders, or has he forced his way, setting his duty before him as an excuse for his impertinence? Steps up the stairs, along the passage--steps almost at the door. I spring to my feet, and push back my chair. Who is it? Who is it I hear? I move still farther into the window, I clutch the curtains to steady myself, I put both my hands up to my head, to stifle the wild sob that rises in my throat. Nearer, nearer! I lean against the window-shutters, and am trembling like one in ague from head to foot, as the door opens, and Marmaduke comes in. Our eyes meet, and then of a sudden a great calm falls upon me! --- "She is dead," says he, wearily, and flings himself into the chair near which he is standing. He makes no attempt to come nearer to me, to touch me after that first long eager glance. As for me, I cannot utter even one poor word. Am I glad? Am I sorry? Am I half mad with joy at the very sight of him? or am I altogether indifferent? I hardly know. "She is dead." The words keep ringing in my ears. My brain echoes them. "She is dead--dead!" A clammy moisture, cold and weak, covers my face. My hands fall to my side lifeless. "Not,"--I stammer--"not--you did not---" "Murder her?" supplies he, with a bitter laugh. "No; though I could have done so with a good will, I refrained from that. When I reached her she was lying shrouded in her coffin." "When did she die?" I ask; "and how?" "In Florence, a fortnight ago, of some malignant fever. I have come here with as little delay as possible to tell you of it." I glance at him curiously. It is not the old Marmaduke who has come back to me. He is travel stained, worn, and thin. His voice has lost its old ring, his eye its brightness. There is something dejected in his very attitude. Such a meeting, after such a parting! I marvel at it inwardly, though conscious I would not have it otherwise. Alas! how wrongly things have gone with us during our brief married life, from beginning to end! Is it indeed true that when the mist and the rain arise to blot our hopes, nor time nor vengeance can suffice to make existence quite the same again?