or of the incomprehensible.

On the wings of the storm and the wind had she come to him, his
love--across the awful barriers that divide life and death? Had his
longings and the clamour of his desolate soul reached her, after all
these years, in the far-beyond, and was her sweet ghost here to bid
him cease from them and let her lie at rest? Or, yet, had she come to
call him from the weary world that their souls might meet and be one
at last?... Then let her but lay her lips against his, as once in the
bitterness of death, that his sorely-tried heart may break with the
exquisite pang and he, too, may die upon their kiss.

Swift such thoughts were tossing in the turmoil of his mind when the
vision smiled ... a young, rosy, living smile; and then reason,
memory, the wonder of her coming, the haunting of her grave went from
him; possessed by one single rapturous certainty he started up and
gathered the wet form into his strong arms--yet gently as if he feared
to crush the vision into void--and showered kisses on the wet face.

Not death--but life! A beating heart beneath his; a lithe young form
under his hand, warm lips to his kisses, ... Merciful Heaven! Were,
then, these twenty years all an evil, fevered dream, and was he awake
at length?

She turned her face from him after a moment and put her hand against
his breast to push him from her; and as she did so the wonder in the
lovely, familiar eyes turned to merriment, and the lips parted into
laughter.

The sound of the girlish laughter broke the spell. Sir Adrian stepped
back, and passed his hand across his forehead with a dazed look.

And still she laughed on.

"Why, cousin Landale," she said, at length between the peals; "I came
to throw myself upon your kindness for shelter from the storm, but--I
had not anticipated such a reception."

The voice, clear and sweet, with just a tinge of outlandish
intonation, struck Adrian to the heart.

"I have not heard," he faltered, "that voice for twenty years...!"

Then, coming up to her, he took her hands; and, drawing her towards
the firelight, scanned her features with eager, hungering eyes.

"Do not think me mad, child," he said at last; "tell me who you
are--what has brought you here? Ah, God, at such a moment! Who is it,"
he pursued, as if to himself, whilst still she smiled mockingly and
answered not; "who is it, then, since Cecile de Savenaye is dead--and
I am not dreaming--nor in fever? No vision either--this i