The Marble Kraals

"Is that you, Stella?" said a voice, that even after so many years
seemed familiar to me. "Where have you been, my dear? I began to think
that you had lost yourself again."

"No, father, dear, I have not lost myself, but I have found somebody
else."

At that moment I stepped forward so that the light fell on me. The old
gentleman on the couch rose with some difficulty and bowed with much
courtesy. He was a fine-looking old man, with deep-set dark eyes, a pale
face that bore many traces of physical and mental suffering, and a long
white beard.

"Be welcome, sir," he said. "It is long since we have seen a white
face in these wilds, and yours, if I am not mistaken, is that of an
Englishman. There has been but one Englishman here for twelve years, and
he, I grieve to say, was an outcast flying from justice," and he bowed
again and stretched out his hand.

I looked at him, and then of a sudden his name flashed back into my
mind. I took his hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Carson?" I said.

He started as though he had been stung.

"Who told you that name?" he cried. "It is a dead name. Stella, is it
you? I forbade you to let it pass your lips."

"I did not speak it, father. I have never spoken it," she answered.

"Sir," I broke in, "if you will allow me I will show you how I came to
know your name. Do you remember many years ago coming into the study of
a clergyman in Oxfordshire and telling him that you were going to leave
England for ever?"