“Oh!” she repeated, “can you tell me where is William Reilly?”

“Alas!  Helen,” said he, “I am William Reilly.”

“You!” she exclaimed.  “Oh, no, the wide, wide Atlantic is between him and me.”

“It was between us, Helen, but it is not now; I am here in life before you—­your own William Reilly, that William Reilly whom you loved so well, but so fatally.  I am he:  do you not know me?”

“You are not William Reilly,” she replied; “if you were, you would have a token.”

“Do you forget that?” he replied, placing in her hand the emerald ring she had given him at the trial.  She started on looking at it, and a feeble flash was observed to proceed from her eyes.

“This might come to you,” she said, “by Reilly’s death; yes, this might come to you in that way; but there is another token which is known to none but himself and me.”

“Whisper,” said he, and as he spoke he applied his mouth to her ear, and breathed the token into it.

[Illustration:  PAGE 182—­It is he! it is he!]

She stood back, her eyes flashed, her beautiful bosom heaved; she advanced, looked once more, and exclaimed, with a scream, “It is he! it is he!” and the next moment she was insensible in his arms.  Long but precious was that insensibility, and precious were the tears which his eyes rained down upon that pale but lovel countenance.  She was soon placed upon a settee, but Reilly knelt beside her, and held one of her hands in his.  After a long trance she opened her eyes and again started.  Reilly pressed her hand and whispered in her ear, “Helen, I am with you at last.”

She smiled on him and said, “Help me to sit up, until I look about me, that I may be certain this is not a dream.”

She then looked about her, and as the ladies of the family spoke tenderly to her, and caressed her, she fixed her eyes once more upon her lover, and said, “It is not a dream then; this is a reality; but, alas!  Reilly, I tremble to think lest they should take you from me again.”

“You need entertain no such apprehension, my dear Helen,” said the lady of the mansion.  “I have often heard your father say that he would give twenty thousand pounds to have you well, and Reilly’s wife.  In fact, you have nothing to fear in that, or any other quarter.  But there’s his knock; he and my husband have returned, and I must break this blessed news to him by degrees, lest it might be too much for him if communicated without due and proper caution.”

She accordingly went down to the hall, where they were hanging up their great coats and hats, and brought them into her husband’s study.

“Mr. Folliard,” said she with a cheerful face, “I think, from some symptoms of improvement noticed to-day in Helen, that we needn’t be without hope.”

“Alas, alas!” exclaimed the poor father, “I have no hope; after such a length of time I am indeed without a shadow of expectation.  If unfortunate Reilly were here, indeed her seeing him, as that Sligo doctor told me, might give her a chance.  He saw her about a week before we came down, and those were his words.  But as for Reilly, even if he were in the country, how could I look him in the face?  What wouldn’t I give now that he were here, that Helen was well, and that one word of mine could make them man and wife?”