“I wonder if you ever really loved me, Bertie.”

“Oh, my God!”

“I wonder if you ever loved me; and I wonder if I ever loved you until this moment.”

There was a silence.  Outside there was a little whisper of moving wings, but no voice of bird.

There was a silence, and out of it a low voice cried softly, softly: 

“Bertie, Bertie, my love, come to me.”

He took a step toward her, a second step—­and then he stood, rigid, breathless, for he heard another soft voice that said: 

“His honor is the honor of his mother and his sister, upon which no stain must come.”

He heard that voice, and with a cry he covered his face with his hands, and turning, fled through the open window into the garden.

She lay there on her couch, that lovely white creature who had been saved so as by fire.  There are two fires:  the one is the fire that consumes the heart until all that is left of it is the dust of ashes; the other is the fire that purifies the soul even unto its salvation; and yet both fires burn alike, so that men and women know not which is burning within them.

Did she know that she was saved so as by fire?

She laughed as though he could still hear her; but after her laugh there came a few moments of overwhelming bitterness that sent her on her knees by the side of the couch in self-abasement.

“Kill me—­kill me, O God!” she wailed.  “Kill me, for I am not fit to live!”

But she was spared.

After a time she found strength to rise.  She seemed surprised to find that the room was in darkness.  She struck a light, and in a few minutes a dozen candles were flaring round the walls; and then she went mechanically to close the window.  One side she had just fastened when it seemed to her that she heard the sound of voices approaching.  She listened, her head bent forward through the side of the window that remained unclosed.

Yes, their voices were sounding clearly through the still night—­his voice and—­what trick was being played upon her by her hearing?  Phyllis’ voice?  How could it be Phyllis’ voice?  Phyllis had returned to London.  Oh, it was some trick!  Her nerves were playing some trick upon her—­they were out of order, they were beyond her control.  Phyllis’ voice——­Great Heavens! it was Phyllis herself who was walking through the garden by his side!

Ella stood at the open side of the window staring out at them.  They stood at the foot of the half dozen steps that lead up to the window.  Phyllis laughed,—­was there a trace of mockery in her laugh?—­but he was silent.

“I don’t wonder at your fancying that I am a ghost, Ella,” cried the girl.  “I feel that I deserve to be treated as discourteously as most poor ghosts are treated when they visit their friends.  You never yet heard of a ghost being asked to stay to dinner, did you, Mr. Courtland?  But a ghost may fairly claim to be asked to enter the house of her dearest friend, especially after a double railway journey.”