“Yes, it’s I!” he responded, in a voice almost as low as hers, a voice that trembled with the intensity of his passion, his joy in having her in his arms again.  “Last night I came down by the first train—­I waited at the station for it—­I came straight from the docks.”  She drew a happy sigh.

“So soon?  And you came straight here?  When I saw you just now, I thought it was a vision:  if the dogs had not been here—­I remembered that dogs do not see ghosts.  Oh, Stafford, it is so long, so very long since I have seen you, so sad and dreary a time!  Tell me—­ah, tell me everything!  Where you have been.  But I know!  Stafford, did you know that I saw you the day you sailed?” she shuddered faintly.  “I thought that was a vision, too, that it was my fancy:  it would not have been the first time I had fancied I had seen you.”  He drew her to the bank, and sinking on it held her in his arms, almost like a child.

“You saw me!  You—­there in London!  And yet I can understand.  Dearest, I did not hear of your trouble until a few weeks ago.  But I must tell you—­”

“Yes, tell me.  I long to hear!  Think, Stafford!  I have not heard of you—­I saw you at the concert in London one night—­”

He started and held her more tightly.

—­“I looked round and saw you; and when you turned and looked up towards me, it seemed as if you must have seen me.  But tell me!  Oh, I want to hear everything!”

The spell wrought by the joy of his presence still held her reason, her memory, in thrall; one thought, one fact, dominated all others:  the fact that he was here, that she was in his arms, with her head on his breast as of old.

And the spell was on him as strongly; how could he remember the past and the barrier he had erected between them?

“I went to Australia, Ida,” he said in a low voice, every note of which was pitched to love’s harmony:  it soothed while it rejoiced her.  “I met a man in London, a farmer, who offered to take me out with him.  You saw me start, you say?  How strange, how wonderful!  And I, yes, I saw you, but I could not believe my senses!  How could it be my beautiful, dainty Ida, the mistress of Herondale, standing on the dirty, squalid quay!  I went with him and worked with him on his cattle-run.  Do you remember how you taught me to count the sheep, Ida?  God, how often when I was riding through solitary wastes I have recalled those hours, every look of your dear eyes, every curve of those sweet lips—­hold them up to me, dearest!—­every tone of your voice, the low, musical voice the memory of which had power to set every nerve tingling with longing and despair.  The work was hard, it seemed unceasing, but I was glad of it; for sometimes I was too weary to think; too weary even to dream of you.  And it was sad business dreaming of you, Ida; for, you see, there was the waking!”

“Do I not know!” she murmured, with something like a sob, and her hand closed on his shoulder.