he saw, in the clear sunlight, the face
under the shady hat--

Had something in his brain snapped? Or was he living through a nightmare
from which he would awake presently? The world, the daisy field, the
figure in blue, himself, all seemed but baseless fabrics of some
fantastic vision!

For, by a strange enchantment, the face which should have been Esther's
face was the face of Molly Weston, his lost wife!

It could not be! But it was.

Incredible the swiftness with which nature rights herself after a
stunning shock. Only for a moment was Callandar left in his paradise of
uncertainty. The next moment, he knew that he beheld no vision, knew it
and accepted it as certainly and completely as if all his life had been
but a preparation for the revelation.

"You!" he said. It was only a whisper but it seemed to fill the
universe. "You--Molly!"

At the name, the hazel eyes which had met his so blankly sprang suddenly
alive--recognition, knowledge, fear, entreaty, flashed across them in
one moment's breathless space--then they grew blank again and Mary
Coombe fell senseless beside her sheaf of daisies.

CHAPTER XXIII

Bending over the form of his lost wife, Henry Callandar forgot Esther.
His mind, careful of its sanity, removed her instantly from the
possibility of thought. She was gone--whisked away by some swift genie
and, with her, vanished the world of blue and gold inhabited by lovers.

There remained only that white, faded face among the daisies. With
careful hands he removed the crushed hat and loosened the collar at the
neck. It was Molly. Not a doubt of that. Not Molly as he remembered her
but Molly from whom the years had taken more than their toll, giving but
little in return. He could not think beyond this fact, as yet. And he
felt nothing, nothing at all. Both heart and mind lay mercifully numb
under the anaesthetic of the shock.

Deftly he did the few things necessary to restore the swooning woman,
noting with a doctor's eye the first faint flush of pink under the dead
white nails, then the flutter of breath through the parted lips and the
slow unclosing of the hazel eyes which, at sight of him, sprang widely,
vividly into life.

"Harry!" The name was the merest whisper and held a quiver of fear. He
remembered, stolidly, that just so had she whispered it upon the evening
of their hurried marriage.

"Yes, Molly. It is all right. Don't be frightened!"--Just so had he
soothed her.

She clos