He saw it cross the field of the little mirror, reflected in profile, and pass beyond it.  He sat yet a moment, enthralled in senseless amazement, then let the glass fall from his outstretched hand, and turned where he sat.

He sprang to his feet.  “Hilda!” he cried.  “Hilda!”

Her face welcomed him with a little smile, sober and kind.

“Yes, dear,” she said gently; “it is Hilda!”

He did not go to her, but stood staring, and groping for the key to his understanding.  She was about five paces from him—­Hilda undeniably, to the soft contour of her cheek and the shaded gold of her hair.

He found words:  “Are you here with me, Hilda?  Or have I gone mad?  Or perhaps I’ve been mad all along!”

She smiled again, and through the fog of his bewilderment and wonder he recognized the smile.

“Not mad, dear,” she was saying.  “Not mad.  But it is very strange and wonderful at first, isn’t it?”

“Strange and wonderful?” He put an uncertain hand to his face and passed it over his eyes.  “Something has happened to me,” he said.  “To my eyes, I think.  Things look strange.  And—­and there is Hilda!” He paused.  “I’d been longing for Hilda.”

She came a step nearer to him then.  “I know,” she murmured softly.  “I know, dear.  But that is past now.”

There was an infinite tenderness in her tone, the tenderness of a mother who uplifts her child through a season of pain.  He felt it, and it seemed to help him to clear away some of the dimness that besieged his senses.

“Then——­” he began, but stayed himself.  “You know,” he said haltingly, “you died.  Hilda died.  I saw it:  my arms were round her.”

“Yes, dear,” she answered.  “Hilda died.  But don’t you understand?”

“No,” he replied, but none the less understanding was dawning upon him.  “How—­how did you come here?” he asked.

“I came by the same way as you, John, dear,” she said.  As again she seemed to take one step toward him.  “There is no other way.”

“No other way!” He repeated the words twice.

“Hilda,” he said, and went to her.

“Yes, dear?”

He took her hand; it lay close and familiarly in his palm.

“Everything seems to be far away from me—­except you,” he said.  “I see you; I hear you speak.  What does it mean, my darling?”

Her eyes were full of love.  “Don’t you know yet, John?” she asked.

“No,” he answered slowly; “unless—­unless——­Hilda, am I dead?”

She did not speak to answer him, but nodded thrice, very slowly.

They found him in his chair before the ashes of the fire.  At his feet the mirror was broken across, where it had dropped from his hand.  And the lips were parted in a sort of uncertainty.

Cahill & Co., Ltd., London, Dublin and Drogheda.

***End of the project gutenberg EBOOK the second class passenger***