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: