“Ethelyn,” came in a whisper from Richard’s lips, and rather crestfallen, the simple Andy said, “Somebody told you, I know; but you are right.  Ethie is here—­came when we all was gone—­said she was a connection of yourn, and so Miss Dobson let her in, and treated her up, and showed her the house, and left her in them rooms you fixed a purpose for her.  You see Miss Dobson had some truck she was canning, and she stayed downstairs so long that when she went back she found Ethie had taken possession of that bed where nobody ever slept, and was burnin’ up with fever and talkin’ the queerest kind of talk about divorces, and all that, and there was something in her face made Miss Dobson mistrust who she was, and she telegraphed for Melinda and me—­or rather for Melinda—­and I came out with her, for I knew in a minit who the strange woman was.  But she won’t know you, Dick.  She don’t know me, though she lays her head on my arm and snugs up to me awful neat.  Will you go now to see her?”

The question was superfluous, for Richard was halfway up the stairs, followed close by Andy, who went with him to the door of Ethie’s room, and then stood back, thinking it best for Richard to go in alone.

Ethelyn was asleep, and Melinda sat watching her.  She knew it was Richard who came in, for she had heard his voice in the hall, and greeting him quickly, arose and left the room, whispering:  “If she wakes, don’t startle her.  Probably she will not know you.”

Then she went out, and Richard was alone with the wife he had not seen for more than five weary years.  It was very dark in the room, and it took him a moment to accustom himself to the light enough to discover the figure lying so still before him, the pale eyelids closed, and the long eyelashes resting upon the crimson cheek.  The lips and forehead were very white, but the rest of the face was purple with fever, and as that gave the cheeks a fuller, rounder look, she did not at first seem greatly changed, but looked much as she did the time he came from Washington and found her so low.  The long hair which Andy would not have confined in a cap was pushed back from her brow, and lay in tangled masses upon the pillow, while her hands were folded one within the other and rested outside the covering.  And Richard touched her hands first—­the little, soft, white hands he used to think so pretty, and which he now kissed so softly as he knelt by the bedside and tried to look closely into Ethie’s face.

“My poor, sick darling, God knows how glad I am to have you back,” he murmured, and his tears dropped like rain upon the hands he pressed so gently.  Then softly caressing the pale forehead, his fingers threaded the mass of tangled hair, and his lips touched the hot, burning ones which quivered for a moment, and then said, brokenly: 

“A dream—­all a dream.  I’ve had it so many times.”

She was waking, and Richard drew back a step or two, while the bright, restless eyes moved round the room as if in quest of someone.