They had nothing to tell him, those rolling, restless waves--no sweet story of hope or of love, no vague pleasant harmony.

With a deep moan he bent his head as he thought of the fair young wife from whom he had parted for evermore, the beautiful loving girl who had clung to him so earnestly.
"Madaline, Madaline!" he cried aloud: and the waves seemed to take up the cry--they seemed to repeat "Madaline" as they broke on the shore.
"Madaline," the mild wind whispered.

It was like the realization of a dream, when he heard his name murmured, and, turning, he saw his lost wife before him.
The next moment he had sprung to his feet, uncertain at first whether it was really herself or some fancied vision.
"Madaline," he cried, "is it really you ?" "Yes; you must not be angry with me, Norman.

See, we are quite alone; there is no one to see me speak to you, no one to reveal that we have met." She trembled as she spoke; her face--to him more beautiful than ever--was raised to his with a look of unutterable appeal.
"You are not angry, Norman ?" "No, I am not angry.

Do not speak to me as though I were a tyrant.
Angry--and with you, Madaline--always my best beloved--how could that be ?" "I knew that you were here," she said.