"Yet she may be dead."

"_May_ be! And what sort of comfort is that to me in my present
position, I should like to know? _May_ be? Is that a sufficient
foundation for me to build on? No. In a moment of thoughtlessness I
have allowed myself to forget the horrible position in which I am. But
now I recall it. I'll crush down my feelings, and be a man again. I'll
see the child-angel once more; once more feast my soul over her sweet
and exquisite loveliness; once more get a glance from her tender,
innocent, and guileless eyes, and then away to South America."

"You said your wife took another name."

"Yes."

"What was it? Do you know it?"

"Oh yes; it was _Willoughby_"

"_Willoughby_!" cried Hawbury, with a start; "why, that's the name of
my Ethel's friend, at Montreal. Could it have been the same?"

"Pooh, man! How is that possible? Willoughby is not an uncommon name.
It's not more likely that your Willoughby and mine are the same than
it is that your Ethel is the one I met at Vesuvius. It's only a
coincidence, and not a very wonderful one, either."

"It seems con-foundedly odd, too," said Hawbury, thoughtfully.
"Willoughby? Ethel? Good Lord! But pooh! What rot? As though they