Would she weep? Would she laugh? Would she cry out?
Would she merely fall into his arms with a glad smile and cling in a
long embrace under his lingering kiss? He trembled like a schoolboy as
he climbed the trellis-work to enter by a window.
Creeping up the sloping, snow-covered roof of the veranda, he came at
length to the window, and looked in. The chamber was empty, but the
door was ajar that led to the apartment in front, used as a
sitting-room. She must be in that room, for his first glance had
recognised many of her trinkets and possessions in the first chamber.
He asked himself if the years had changed her: they would have made
her a little graver, doubtless.
He opened the window so slowly that the noise was scarce perceptible.
Then he clambered over the ledge into the chamber; strode tiptoe
toward the next room, catching a mirrored glimpse of his face as he
passed her dressing-table--the most joyous, eager face in the world.
He pushed the door further open, and stepped across the threshold. She
was there, in the centre of the room, standing in meditation, her face
turned by chance toward the door through which he entered.
"My dear," said he, in a voice scarce above a whisper; and started
toward her, with arms held out, and (I am sure) a very angel's smile
of joy and love upon his face.
She opened her eyes and lips in wonder, and then stood pale and rigid
as marble, and made a faint gesture to check his approach.
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