"Who are you?" asked Norah, with the sharp tones of alarm and
incredulity. "I don't know you:" trying, by futile words of disbelief,
to do away with the terrible fact before her.

"Am I so changed?" he said, pathetically. "I daresay I am. But, Norah,
tell me!" he breathed hard, "where is my wife? Is she--is she alive?"

He came nearer to Norah, and would have taken her hand; but she backed
away from him; looking at him all the time with staring eyes, as if he
were some horrible object. Yet he was a handsome, bronzed, good-looking
fellow, with beard and moustache, giving him a foreign-looking aspect;
but his eyes! there was no mistaking those eager, beautiful eyes--the
very same that Norah had watched not half-an-hour ago, till sleep stole
softly over them.

"Tell me, Norah--I can bear it--I have feared it so often. Is she dead?"
Norah still kept silence. "She is dead!" He hung on Norah's words and
looks, as if for confirmation or contradiction.

"What shall I do?" groaned Norah. "O, sir! why did you come? how did you
find me out? where have you been? We thought you dead, we did, indeed!"
She poured out words and questions to gain time, as if time would help
her.

"Norah! answer me this question, straight, by yes or no--Is my wife
dead?"

"No, she is not!" said Norah, slowly and heavily.

"O what a relief! Did she receive my letters? But perhaps you don't