The Stranger

He spoke her name as if the very repetition of it told the sum of his content. "Phil!--and I not know!--and my love's violets!" Releasing one hand he touched the flowers she wore. "And the little heart--the same! Your heart and mine!"

He led her, compelled against her will, unresisting to a sofa. Philippa sank upon it overwhelmed and almost nerveless under the stress of his emotion. He placed himself beside her, half sitting, half kneeling at her feet.

"I do not know--was it yesterday I saw you, cool and sweet in your soft primrose gown? or was it long ago before the shadows fell? Ah, love--your eyes! your hair! And always in the darkness the sound of your voice--the touch of your dear hand."

Philippa felt her senses reeling. With an effort she tore her eyes from his and gazed round the room. What did it mean? What dream was it? Was she waking or sleeping?

Beside the sofa stood a table, and on it an easel supporting a picture of--oh no, it could not be herself!

She drew one hand--the other was still tightly clasped in his--across her eyes as if to brush away a veil of unreality which seemed to hang over everything, and looked again. But no, there was no mistaking it--the dark hair drawn loosely back from the brow--her hair--her face as she saw it daily in her mirror--even her dress; a touch of pale yellow lightly indicated the folds of soft lace--the bunch of violets; and there, in black letters of unmistakable clearness on the gilding of the frame, the one word "Philippa."