I was greeted by the lady of all nobility with her gracious warmth, and
in his usual abrupt manful fashion by Prince Hermann. And I had no time
to reflect on the strangeness of my stepping freely under the roof where
a husband claimed Ottilia, before she led me into the library, where sat
my lost and recovered, my darling; and, unlike herself, for a moment, she
faltered in rising and breathing my name.

We were alone. I knew she was no bondwoman. The question how it had
come to pass lurked behind everything I said and did; speculation on the
visible features, and touching of the unfettered hand, restrained me from
uttering or caring to utter it. But it was wonderful. It thrust me back
on Providence again for the explanation--humbly this time. It was
wonderful and blessed, as to loving eyes the first-drawn breath of a
drowned creature restored to life. I kissed her hand. 'Wait till you
have heard everything, Harry,' she said, and her voice was deeper,
softer, exquisitely strange in its known tones, as her manner was, and
her eyes. She was not the blooming, straight-shouldered, high-breathing
girl of other days, but sister to the day of her 'Good-bye, Harry,' pale
and worn. The eyes had wept. This was Janet, haply widowed. She wore
no garb nor a shade of widowhood. Perhaps she had thrown it off, not to
offend an implacable temper in me. I said, 'I shall hear nothing that
can make you other than my own Janet--if you will?'

She smiled a little. 'We expected Temple's arrival sooner than yours,
Harry.!

'Do you take to his Lucy?'

'Yes, thoroughly.'