Then a meadow-lark, disturbed, flew up with his piercing "sweet!"
the stooping figure turned and he saw, in the clear sunlight, the face
under the shady hat--
Had something in his brain snapped? Or was he living through a nightmare
from which he would awake presently? The world, the daisy field, the
figure in blue, himself, all seemed but baseless fabrics of some
fantastic vision!
For, by a strange enchantment, the face which should have been Esther's
face was the face of Molly Weston, his lost wife!
It could not be! But it was.
Incredible the swiftness with which nature rights herself after a
stunning shock. Only for a moment was Callandar left in his paradise of
uncertainty. The next moment, he knew that he beheld no vision, knew it
and accepted it as certainly and completely as if all his life had been
but a preparation for the revelation.
"You!" he said. It was only a whisper but it seemed to fill the
universe. "You--Molly!"
At the name, the hazel eyes which had met his so blankly sprang suddenly
alive--recognition, knowledge, fear, entreaty, flashed across them in
one moment's breathless space--then they grew blank again and Mary
Coombe fell senseless beside her sheaf of daisies.
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