along the tree-bordered street on which his home was located, he almost laughed aloud as he thought of how amazed some of his friends would be when they met him. They would think him a ghost or a walking corpse, would perhaps shrink in terror from him at first.
But that thought brought another: he must not walk in on Helen too abruptly. The husband she had buried ten days ago must not appear too suddenly or the shock might easily kill her. He must contrive somehow to soften the shock of his appearance, must make sure that he did not startle her too much.
With this resolve in mind, when he reached his big house set well back from the street, Woodford turned aside through the grounds instead of approaching the front entrance. He saw windows lighted in the library of the house and he went toward them. He would see who was there, would try to break the news of his return gently to Helen.
He silently climbed onto the terrace outside the library windows and approached the tall easements. He peered in.
Through the silken curtains inside he could clearly see the room’s soft-lit interior, cozy with the shelves of his books and with the lamps and fireplace.
Helen, his wife, sat on a sofa with her back partly toward the window. Beside her sat a man that Woodford recognized as one of their closest friends, Curtis Dawes.
Sight of Dawes gave Woodford an idea. He would get Dawes outside in some way and have him break the news of his return to Helen. His heart was pounding at sight of his wife.
Then Curtis Dawes spoke, his words dimly audible to Woodford outside the window. "Happy, Helen?" he was asking.
“So happy, dear," she answered, turning toward him.
Out in the darkness Woodford stared in perplexed wonder. How could she be happy when she thought her husband dead and buried?
He heard Curtis Dawes speaking again. "It was a long time," the man was saying. "Those years that I waited, Helen."
She laid her hand tenderly on his. "I know, and you never said a word. I respected so your loyalty to John."
She looked into the fire musingly. "John was a good husband, Curt. He really loved me and I never let him guess that I didn’t love him, that it was you, his friend, I loved. But when he died I couldn’t feel grief. I felt regret for his sake, of course, but underneath it was the consciousness that at last you and I were free to love each other.”
Dawes’ arm went tenderly around her shoulder. “Darling, you don’t regret that I talked you into marrying me right away? You don’t care that people may be talking about us?"
“I don’t care for anything but you," she told him. "John was dead, young Jack has his own home and wife, and there was no reason in the world why we should not marry. I’m glad that we did."
In the darkness outside the window a stunned, dazed John Woodford saw her lift an illumined face toward the man’s.
“I’m proud to be your wife at last, dear, no matter what anyone may say about us," he heard.
Woodford drew slowly back from the window. He paused in the darkness under the trees, his mind shaken, torn.
So this was his homecoming from the tomb? This was the joy he had anticipated in Helen when he returned?
It couldn’t be the truth! His ears had deceived him—Helen could not be the wife of Curtis Dawes! Yet part of his
