She doubted her own senses as she heard him speak, and ever and again the name of Beatrice rang in her ears.

He looked at her hands, and knew them; at her black dress, and knew it for her own, and yet he poured out the eloquence of his love--kneeling, then standing, then sitting at her side, drawing her head to his shoulder and smoothing her fair hair--so black to him--with a gentle hand.

She was passive through it all, as yet.

There seemed to be no other way.

He paused sometimes, then spoke again.