We had passed through into the next room before either of us broke the silence.  Insensibly our hands had crept together, and as they met and clasped with mutual pressure, Ruth exclaimed:  “How dreadful and tragic it is!  Poor, poor Uncle John!  It seems as if he had come back from the world of shadows to tell us of this awful thing.  But, O God! what a relief it is!” She caught her breath in one or two quick sobs and pressed my hand passionately.

“It is over, dearest,” I said.  “It is gone for ever.  Nothing remains but the memory of your sorrow and your noble courage and patience.”

“I can’t realise it yet,” she murmured.  “It has been like a frightful, interminable dream.”

“Let us put it away,” said I, “and think only of the happy life that is opening.”

She made no reply, and only a quick catch in her breath, now and again, told of the long agony that she had endured with such heroic calm.

We walked on slowly, scarcely disturbing the silence with our soft foot-falls, through the wide doorway into the second room.  The vague shapes of the mummy-cases standing erect in the wall-cases, loomed out dim and gigantic, silent watchers keeping their vigil with the memories of untold centuries locked in their shadowy breasts.  They were an awesome company.  Reverend survivors from a vanished world, they looked out from the gloom of their abiding-place, but with no shade of menace or of malice in their silent presence; rather with a solemn benison on the fleeting creatures of to-day.

Half-way along the room a ghostly figure, somewhat aloof from its companions, showed a dim, pallid blotch where its face would have been.  With one accord we halted before it.

“Do you know who it is, Ruth?” I asked.

“Of course I do,” she answered.  “It is Artemidorus.”

We stood, hand in hand, facing the mummy, letting our memories fill in the vague silhouette with its well-remembered details.  Presently I drew her nearer to me and whispered: 

“Ruth! do you remember when we last stood here?”

“As if I could ever forget!” she answered passionately.  “Oh, Paul!  The sorrow of it!  The misery!  How it wrung my heart to tell you!  Were you very unhappy when I left you?”

“Unhappy!  I never knew, until then, what real, heart-breaking sorrow was.  It seemed as if the light had gone out of my life for ever.  But there was just one little spot of brightness left.”

“What was that?”

“You made me a promise, dear—­a solemn promise; and I felt—­at least I hoped—­that the day would come, if I only waited patiently, when you would be able to redeem it.”

She crept closer to me and yet closer, until her head nestled on my shoulder and her soft cheek lay against mine.

“Dear heart,” I whispered, “is it now?  Is the time fulfilled?”

“Yes, dearest,” she murmured softly.  “It is now—­and for ever.”