Her hand shook as she laid it upon the door and pressed it open.

Stepping within, she glanced around with a frightened air.
On the sofa lay Hartley, with his face toward the light.

It was wan and troubled, and the brows were contracted as if from intense pain.
For some moments Irene stood looking at him; but his eyes were shut and he lay perfectly still.

She drew nearer and bent down over him.
He was sleeping, but his breath came so faintly, and there was so little motion of his chest, that the thought flashed through her with an electric thrill that he might be dying! Only by a strong effort of self-control did she repress a cry of fear, or keep back her hands from clasping his neck.

In what a strong tide did love rush back upon her soul! Her heart overflowed with tenderness, was oppressed with yearning.
"Oh, Hartley, my husband, my dear husband!" she cried out, love, fear, grief and anguish blending wildly in her voice, as she caught him in her arms and awoke him with a rain of tears and kisses.
"Irene! Love! Darling! What ails you?
Where are we ?" were the confusedly uttered sentences of Mr.Emerson, as he started from the sofa and, holding his young wife from him, looked into her weeping face.
"Call me again 'love' and 'darling,' and I care not where we are!" she answered, in tones of passionate entreaty.