"Your wife ?" He shook his head again.
"Who, then?
What is she like ?" He answered that question in words.

His hoarse, hollow voice softened, little by little, into sorrowful and gentle tones.
"Young," he said; "with a fair, sad face--with kind, tender eyes--with a soft, clear voice.

Young and loving and merciful.

I keep her face in my mind, though I can keep nothing else.

I must wander, wander, wander--restless, sleepless, homeless--till I find _her!_ Over the ice and over the snow; tossing on the sea, tramping over the land; awake all night, awake all day; wander, wander, wander, till I find _her!_" He waved his hand with a gesture of farewell, and turned wearily to go out.
At the same moment Crayford opened the yard door.
"I think you had better come to Clara," he began, and checked himself, noticing the stranger.