“Maude!” he said in a low voice.

She did not move for a moment, but looked straight before her wistfully, as if she could not trust her ears; then she turned and came towards him, with something like fear on her face.  The fear broke up, as it were, and, stretching out her arms, she spoke his name—­the accents of love fighting with those of doubt and a joy that dreaded its own greatness.

“Stafford!  It is you!”

She pressed her hands to her heart for a moment, then she fell into his arm, half fainting.

CHAPTER XLII.

“Yes, my father bought the place,” said Maude.  “I asked him to do so, and he consented at once.  I could not have let it pass to strangers.  You see, I had been so happy here; it was here that you asked me to be your wife.  And father has offered to settle it upon us,” she blushed slightly, and her eyes became downcast.  “He is no longer—­opposed to our marriage; he knows that I would marry you if all the world cried ‘No!’”

They had been sitting talking for nearly an hour.  She had recovered from the shock of his sudden presence, and was seated beside him—­so close that she could touch him with her hand—­calm now, but with a glow in her usually pale cheek, a light in her eyes which had been absent for many a weary month past.  He had given her, mostly in answer to her eager questions, a very abbreviated account of his life in Australia; telling her less even than he had told Ida; and it is needless to remark, saying nothing of the cause of his hasty return.

“Ah, well,” she said, drawing a long breath, “it is all over now, Stafford.  Ah, it is good to have you back safe and sound.  You are well, are you not?  You look pale and thin and—­and tired.  But I suppose it’s the journey.  Yes, it is all over; you need not wander any longer; you have come back to me, have you not, Stafford?  If you knew how I have missed you, how I have longed for you!  And now you will settle down and take your place in the world and be happy!  Do you think I shall not make you happy, Stafford?  Ah, do not be afraid;” her eyes sought his and her hand stole towards his arm.

He rose and leant against the mantel-shelf.

“I only know that I am quite unworthy of you, Maude,” he said, gravely.

She looked up at him and laughed.

“Are you?  Who cares!  Not I! I only know that I love you so dearly that if you were the blackest villain to be found in fiction, it would make no difference to me.”

He was filled with shame and self-reproach, and turned away his head that she might not see the shame in his eyes.

“How did you come?” she asked, presently.  “If my father were only at home!  You could stay with us, then.”

“I am staying at The Woodman,” he said.

She regarded him with some surprise.

“Last night!  Late, do you mean?  Did you meet, see anyone?”