He turned just in the doorway, and then a great shock, which seemed almost like a convulsion, passed over him as he caught sight of that kneeling figure, as he saw and recognized the beautiful, despairing face that was turned toward him, and beheld those hands outstretched so appealingly. Was he dreaming? was he the victim of some wonderful optical illusion? or had that violent shock been the rending of his soul from his body, sending him in an instant into the eternal world to be met thus by this vision of his lost wife? No, no! it was no dream, no illusion! It was the real face of his idolized wife—the one face in all the world that he had ever loved with all the passion of his nature, and, though he could not understand it—though it seemed absurdly impossible, he yet instinctively knew that those delicate features, those wondrous eyes, those sweet, quivering lips, and that wealth of beautiful hair belonged to Salome alone. With a mighty effort he broke the spell that held him paralyzed, and unheeding Dr. Arnot’s polite, though somewhat impatient, efforts to hurry him away, he leaped suddenly back into the room, and in an instant that loved form lay upon his breast, and he knew, beyond a doubt, that his wife was not dead, but living, and all his own once more. A bitter curse burst from Dr. Arnot’s lips as he witnessed this astonishing scene, and realized that a formidable investigation was a probable result. With a brow as black as night he hastened down the ward after his flying visitor, and overtook him just as she lost consciousness in his arms. “Monsieur,” he tried to say calmly, “the girl has only fainted, and, although your sympathy and agility have saved her fall and does you great credit, she will be better left with the attendant. Pray lay her upon the couch yonder, where she will receive every necessary attention.” He had not heard the young physician’s passionate exclamation as he caught his wife in his arms, and was therefore still ignorant of the true meaning of the scene. “Lay her upon a couch in this room and leave her with an attendant!” Dr. Winthrop cried, as he turned almost fiercely upon Dr. Arnot. “Never, sir! for she is my wife! My God! that I should find her here!” “Your wife, monsieur!” and the man recoiled as if he had been struck a blow. “Mon Dieu, monsieur must have been stricken with insanity himself!” and he anxiously searched the young husband’s face. He was as pale as Salome herself—his lips twitched from intense emotion, and the veins stood out like whipcords upon his forehead, while he hugged that unconscious form to his heart like some miser who had suddenly recovered his long-lost treasure. “Yes, my wife!” he replied. “Oh, my love! my love! what brought you into this den?” Then he added sternly, as he turned to Monsieur Arnot. “She is no more insane than you are; show me at once to some private room where I can give her the care she needs.”