"That's enough, Agnes; that's enough," he cried, and, leaning across the case of the piano, laid hold on her hands and raised them off the keyboard. And as he did so the blood leapt in his veins, for the fact was no longer open to question--those hands were firm and softly warm as a living woman's hand should be, and the clasp of them met and clung in his. He drew her up, making the sweet musician stand opposite to him, while, bending down, he kissed and kissed those dear, warm hands, looking at her, his face on a level with hers. And as he did so her cheeks lost their waxen pallor and became beautifully flushed with clear colour, while--so it seemed to him--he could hear the beating of her heart. And thus for a space they stood speechless, consumed by a very ecstasy of love. Laurence was the first to break that enchanted silence. For he was feverish to complete the working of the miracle--to establish her in this earthly life upon which she was re-entering, to chain her spirit to this recovered human body by some corporeal act. He was feverish to set a seal upon her new condition, which it should not be possible for her to evade or to break. "The perfect hour has come," he said, with fierce exultation. "Do you understand what has happened? You asked me once what was lacking. Well, that which was lacking has been restored to you. But it won't do to rest here. We must go on, go forward, so as to make security doubly secure." Yet she sighed, turning her face away and gently releasing her hands from his grasp. "Ah! the perfect hour has come--yes," she said. "But, dear Laurence, it came once before, and, remember, along with it came the call for you to depart. Sorrow trod hard on the heels of joy; and I fear--how can I do otherwise?--lest it should do so again to-night." Laurence felt his throat go dry and his lips stiffen, so that speech did not come quite readily. "It lies with you to prevent that catastrophe," he answered. "Only be brave. Do as I ask you, and we can put all fear behind us for ever and a day. All the world may call me; I shall not go. It may howl at me, even, using foul names; but what does that matter? I have chosen. I abide by my choice." As he spoke she moved a little further from him, while the thunder growled and muttered in the north, and the lightning showed fitfully, as with the glare of a burning town, low down in the night sky. "What has taken you, Laurence?" she asked. "You are strange in manner and in voice. I hardly know you thus. Yet indeed I would do anything you ask, however difficult, if that which you would have me do is not in itself sinful or wrong." "And this is right," he declared; "incontestably, everlastingly right. Indeed, it is little more than bare justice--the restitution of that which was once ours, the paying of a long-owed debt. In past years happiness was snatched from us by jealous fate. Fate has repented--though late--and gives us back our happiness. We should be fools not to take it."