“Poor fellow! poor fellow! he has not forgotten it,” groaned Mr. Kemble.  “Well, I might as well out with it.  Suppose Captain Nichol was not killed after all?”

Helen sank into a chair as if struck down as Nichol had been himself.  “What!” she whispered; and her face was white indeed.

Mrs. Kemble rushed to her husband, demanding, “Do you mean to tell us that Captain Nichol is alive?”

“Yes; that’s just the question we’ve got to face.”

“It brings up another question,” replied his wife, sternly.  “If he’s been alive all this time, why did he not let us know?  As far as I can make out, Hobart has found him in Washington—­”

“Helen,” cried her father to the trembling girl, “for Heaven’s sake, be calm!”

“He’s alive, alive!” she answered, as if no other thought could exist in her mind.  Her eyes were kindling, the color coming into her face, and her bosom throbbed quickly as if her heart would burst its bonds.  Suddenly she rushed to her father, exclaiming, “He was the sick man.  Oh, why did you not let me see him?”

“Well, well!” ejaculated Mr. Kemble, “Hobart was right, poor fellow!  Yes, Helen, Captain Nichol is the sick man, not dangerously ill, however.  You are giving ample reason why you should not see him yet; and I tell you plainly you can’t see him till you are just as composed as I am.”

She burst into a joyous, half-hysterical laugh as she exclaimed, “That’s not asking much.  I never saw you so moved, papa.  Little wonder!  The dead is alive again!  Oh, papa, papa, you don’t understand me at all!  Could I hear such tidings composedly—­I who have wept so many long nights and days over his death?  I must give expression to overwhelming feeling here where it can do no harm, but if I had seen him—­when I do see him—­ah! he’ll receive no harm from me.”

“But, Helen, think of Hobart,” cried Mrs. Kemble, in sharp distress.

“Mother, mother, I cannot help it.  Albert is alive, alive!  The old feeling comes back like the breaking up of the fountains of the great deep.  You cannot know, cannot understand; Hobart will.  I’m sorry, sorry for him; but he will understand.  I thought Albert was dead; I wanted to make Hobart happy.  He was so good and kind and deserving that I did love him in a sincere, quiet way, but not with my first love, not as I loved Albert.  I thought my love was buried with him; but it has burst the grave as he has.  Papa, papa, let me go to him, now, now!  You say he is sick; it is my place to nurse him back to life.  Who has a better right?  Why do you not bring him here?”

“Perhaps it will be best, since Helen feels so,” said Mr. Kemble, looking at his wife.

“Well, I don’t know,” she replied with a deep sigh.  “We certainly don’t wish the public to be looking on any more than we can help.  He should be either here or at his own home.”

“There’s more reason for what you say than you think,” Mr. Kemble began.