suddenly seemed to arouse himself: the conviction of the reality of all this seized him.
“It is you—is it, Jane? You are come back to me then?”
“I am.”
“And you do not lie dead in some ditch under some stream? And you are not a pining outcast amongst strangers?”
“No, sir! I am an independent woman now.”
“Independent! What do you mean, Jane?”
“My uncle in Madeira is dead, and he left me five thousand pounds.”
“Ah! this is practical—this is real!” he cried: “I should never dream that. Besides, there is that peculiar voice of hers, so animating and piquant, as well as soft: it cheers my withered heart; it puts life into it.—What, Janet! Are you an independent woman? A rich woman?”
“If you