Sitting by her husband’s deathbed, however, the long-estranged wife seemed to live a double life.  The recollection of the past—­of the short and secret courtship with its illusions, greater and more perilous than love’s illusions commonly are—­of her first days of married life, when, in spite of her rash disobedience, she was feverishly happy; of the awaking, and total disenchantment, and the wretched years that followed, all came to her in a floating, broken vision, filling her with emotions which had, at last, lost their bitterness.  She yielded to them without resistance and without effort, and sank into a long silence, which was broken at last by Mr. Strafford.

“I must leave you,” he said.  “The boat starts in half an hour, and I want to see Mrs. Bellairs for a moment.”

Mrs. Costello roused herself.

“Good-bye, then,” she answered.  “Dear Mr. Strafford, you know I have long ago given up trying to thank you for all you do for me; you must accept obedience as a proof of gratitude.”

“See that you do obey me then,” he replied smiling, “by taking care of yourself.  Have you any message for Lucia?”

“Do you not think she might come here?”

“Yes, perfectly well.  Shall I tell her you expect her?”

“Please.”

“And you will return to Mrs. Bellairs with her?”

“We shall see.  I do not promise.”

“Well, I will not ask too much.  Good-bye.”

He went to the bedside, took Christian’s hand and bade him also good-bye.  He was roused for a moment, but his thoughts still returned to the old days.

“Adieu! father,” he said; “I think I shall be gone when you come back.  Do you know that I am going on a journey?  They will not tell me where, but I shall not forget you all here.  Ask the Saints to bring me safe back.”

Mr. Strafford knelt by the bed for a moment, and asked a heavenly guide for the poor wanderer on this his last journey, but he seemed to hear nothing and went on murmuring to himself,

“Ave Maria, gratia plena—­”

When her friend was gone, and Mrs. Costello came back to her seat, he was still feebly repeating “pro nobis peccatoribus, pro nobis peccatoribus,” with a faint trembling voice, as if even to the dulled faculties, through the deepening shadow of death, some faint distorted gleam of the truth had pierced, and the soul was, in truth, less torpid than the brain.

His wife sat by his side, and listened, deeply touched.  She perceived that the part of his life with which she was associated, was dead to him; she could only stand aside and watch while the shadows of an earlier time gathered closely round him.  But the more she understood this, the more a painful tenderness filled her heart towards him; she almost fancied that she had loved him all these years, and only found it out now that he had forgotten her.  She began to grow impatient for Lucia’s coming, and to long for the moment when she should be able to say,