I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes--I swept his hair from his brow, and kissed that too. He suddenly seemed to arouse himself: the conviction of the reality of all this seized him.

     "It is you--is it, Jane? You are come back to me then?"

     "I am."

     "And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream? And you are not a pining outcast amongst strangers?"

     "No, sir! I am an independent woman now."

     "Independent! What do you mean, Jane?"

     "My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds."

     "Ah! this is practical--this is real!" he cried: "I should never dream that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart; it puts life into it.--What, Janet! Are you an independent woman? A rich woman?"

     "If you won't let me live with you, I can build a house of my own close up to your door, and you may come and sit in my parlour when you want company of an evening."