passed for Anne Medway like a happy dream. She was content now to
wait--years even--she had recovered faith in herself, faith in the
future.

The next Indian mail brought her no letter, somewhat to her surprise.
She wondered what had made Kenneth allude to his perhaps seeing her
again before long--she wondered almost more, what was the "strange
experience" to which he referred. Could it have had any connection
with her _most_ strange experience that November afternoon? And thus
"wondering" she was sitting alone--in her own house again by this
time--one evening towards the end of April, when a ring at the bell made
her look up from the book she was reading, half dreamily asking herself
what visitor could be coming so late. She heard steps and voices--a door
shutting--then Ambrose opened that of the drawing-room where she was
sitting and came up to her, his wrinkled old face all flushed and
beaming.

"It was me that frightened you so that day, ma'am," he began. "It's
right it should be me again. But it's himself--his very own self this
time. You may believe me, indeed."

Anne started to her feet. She felt herself growing pale--she trembled so
that she could scarcely stand.

"Where is he?" she said. "You have not put him into the library--anywhere
but there?"

"He would have it so, ma'am. He said he would explain to you. Oh, go to
him, ma'am--you'll see it'll be all right."

Anne made her way to the library. But at the door a strange tremor
seized her. She could scarcely control herself to open it. Yes--there
again on the hearthrug stood the tall figure she had so often pictured
thus to herself. She trembled and all but fell, but his voice--his own
hearty, living voice--speaking to her in accents tenderer and deeper
than ever heretofore--reassured her, and dispersed at once the fear that
had hovered about her.

"Anne, my dear Anne. It is I myself. Don't look so frightened;" and in a
moment he had led her forward, and stood with his hand on her shoulder,
looking with his kind, earnest eyes into hers.

"Yes," he said dreamily, "it was just thus. Oh, how often I have thought
of this moment! Anne, if I am mistaken forgive my presumption, but I can't
think I am. Anne, my darling, you _do_ love me?"

There was no need of words. Anne hid her face on his shoulder for one
happy moment. Then amidst the tears that _would_ come she told him
all--all she had suffered and hoped and feared--her love and her agony
of humiliati