The train was late—very late. It was Virginia who first caught sight of the new dome of the Capitol through the slanting rain, but she merely pressed her lips together and said nothing. In the dingy brick station of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad more than one person paused to look after them, and a kind-hearted lady who had been in the car kissed the girl good-by.

“You think that you can find your uncle's house, my dear?” she asked, glancing at Virginia with concern. Through all of that long journey she had worn a look apart. “Do you think you can find your uncle's house?”

Virginia started. And then she smiled as she looked at the honest, alert, and squarely built gentleman beside her.

“Captain Brent can, Mrs. Ware,” she said. “He can find anything.”

Whereupon the kind lady gave the Captain her hand. “You look as if you could, Captain,” said she. “Remember, if General Carvel is out of town, you promised to bring her to me.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Captain Lige, “and so I shall.”

“Kerridge, kerridge! Right dis-a-way! No sah, dat ain't de kerridge you wants. Dat's it, lady, you'se lookin at it. Kerridge, kerridge, kerridge!”

Virginia tried bravely to smile, but she was very near to tears as she stood on the uneven pavement and looked at the scrawny horses standing patiently in the steady downpour. All sorts of people were coming and going, army officers and navy officers and citizens of states and territories, driving up and driving away.

And this was Washington!

She was thinking then of the multitude who came here with aching hearts,—with heavier hearts than was hers that day. How many of the throng hurrying by would not flee, if they could, back to the peaceful homes they had left? But perhaps those homes were gone now. Destroyed, like her own, by the war. Women with children at their breasts, and mothers bowed with sorrow, had sought this city in their agony. Young men and old had come hither, striving to keep back the thoughts of dear ones left behind, whom they might never see again. And by the thousands and tens of thousands they had passed from here to the places of blood beyond.

“Kerridge, sah! Kerridge!”

“Do you know where General Daniel Carvel lives?”

“Yes, sah, reckon I does. I Street, sah. Jump right in, sah.”

Virginia sank back on the stuffy cushions of the rattle-trap, and then sat upright again and stared out of the window at the dismal scene. They were splashing through a sea of mud. Ever since they had left St. Louis, Captain Lige had done his best to cheer her, and he did not intend to desist now.

“This beats all,” he cried. “So this is Washington, Why, it don't compare to St. Louis, except we haven't got the White House and the Capitol. Jinny, it would take a scow to get across the street, and we don't have ramshackly stores and nigger cabins bang up against fine Houses like that. This is ragged. That's what it is, ragged. We don't have any dirty pickaninnies dodging among the horses in our residence streets. I declare, Jinny, if those aren't pigs!”

Virginia laughed. She could not help it.

“Poor Lige!” she said. “I hope Uncle Daniel has some breakfast for you. You've had a good deal to put up with on this trip.”

“Lordy, Jinny,” said the Captain, “I'd put up with a good deal more than this for the sake of going anywhere with you.”

“Even to such a doleful place as this?” she sighed.

“This is all right, if the sun'll only come out and dry things up and let us see the green on those trees,” he said, “Lordy, how I do love to see the spring green in the sunlight!”

She put out her hand over his.

“Lige,” she said, “you know you're just trying to keep up my spirits. You've been doing that ever since we left home.”

“No such thing,” he replied with vehemence. “There's nothing for you to be cast down about.”

“Oh, but there is!” she cried. “Suppose I can't make your Black Republican President pardon Clarence!”

“Pooh!” said the Captain, squeezing her hand and trying to appear unconcerned. “Your Uncle Daniel knows Mr. Lincoln. He'll have that arranged.”

Just then the rattletrap pulled up at the sidewalk, the wheels of the near side in four inches of mud, and the Captain leaped out and spread the umbrella. They were in front of a rather imposing house of brick, flanked on one side by a house just like it, and on the other by a series of dreary vacant lots where the rain had collected in pools. They climbed the steps and rang the bell. In due time the door was opened by a smiling yellow butler in black.

“Does General Carvel live here?”

“Yas, miss, But he ain't to home now. Done gone to New York.”

“Oh,” faltered Virginia. “Didn't he get my telegram day before yesterday? I sent it to the War Department.”

“He's done gone since Saturday, miss.” And then, evidently impressed by the young lady's looks, he added hospitably, “Kin I do anything fo' you, miss?”

“I'm his niece, Miss Virginia Carvel, and this is Captain Brent.”

The yellow butler's face lighted up.

“Come right in, Miss Jinny, Done heerd de General speak of you often—yas'm. De General'll be to home dis a'ternoon, suah. 'Twill do him good ter see you, Miss Jinny. He's been mighty lonesome. Walk right in, Cap'n, and make yo'selves at home. Lizbeth—Lizbeth!”

A yellow maid came running down the stairs. “Heah's Miss Jinny.”

“Lan' of goodness!” cried Lizbeth. “I knows Miss Jinny. Done seed her at Calve't House. How is you, Miss Jinny?”

“Very well, Lizbeth,” said Virginia, listlessly sitting down on the hall sofa. “Can you give us some breakfast?”

“Yas'm,” said Lizbeth, “jes' reckon we kin.” She ushered them into a walnut dining room, big and high and sombre, with plush-bottomed chairs placed about—walnut also; for that was the fashion in those days. But the Captain had no sooner seated himself than he shot up again and started out.

“Where are you going, Lige?”

“To pay off the carriage driver,” he said.

“Let him wait,” said Virginia. “I'm going to the White House in a little while.”

“What—what for?” he gasped.

“To see your Black Republican President,” she replied, with alarming calmness.

“Now, Jinny,” he cried, in excited appeal, “don't go doin' any such fool trick as that. Your Uncle Dan'l will be here this afternoon. He knows the President. And then the thing'll be fixed all right, and no mistake.”

Her reply was in the same tone—almost a monotone—which she had used for three days. It made the Captain very uneasy, for he knew when she spoke in that way that her will was in it.

“And to lose that time,” she answered, “may be to have him shot.”

“But you can't get to the President without credentials,” he objected.

“What,” she flashed, “hasn't any one a right to see the President? You mean to say that he will not see a woman in trouble? Then all these pretty stories I hear of him are false. They are made up by the Yankees.”

Poor Captain Lige! He had some notion of the multitude of calls upon Mr. Lincoln, especially at that time. But he could not, he dared not, remind her of the principal reason for this,—Lee's surrender and the approaching end of the war. And then the Captain had never seen Mr. Lincoln. In the distant valley of the Mississippi he had only heard of the President very conflicting things. He had heard him criticised and reviled and praised, just as is every man who goes to the White House, be he saint or sinner. And, during an administration, no man at a distance may come at a President's true character and worth. The Captain had seen Lincoln caricatured vilely. And again he had read and heard the pleasant anecdotes of which Virginia had spoken, until he did not know what to believe.

As for Virginia, he knew her partisanship to, and undying love for, the South; he knew the class prejudice which was bound to assert itself, and he had seen enough in the girl's demeanor to fear that she was going to demand rather than implore. She did not come of a race that was wont to bend the knee.

“Well, well,” he said despairingly, “you must eat some breakfast first, Jinny.”

She waited with an ominous calmness until it was brought in, and then she took a part of a roll and some coffee.

“This won't do,” exclaimed the Captain. “Why, why, that won't get you halfway to Mr. Lincoln.”

She shook her head, half smiling.

“You must eat enough, Lige,” she said.

He was finished in an incredibly short time, and amid the protestations of Lizbeth and the yellow butler they got into the carriage again, and splashed and rattled toward the White House. Once Virginia glanced out, and catching sight of the bedraggled flags on the houses in honor of Lee's surrender, a look of pain crossed her face. The Captain could not repress a note of warning.

“Jinny,” said he, “I have an idea that you'll find the President a good deal of a man. Now if you're allowed to see him, don't get him mad, Jinny, whatever you do.”

Virginia stared straight ahead.

“If he is something of a man, Lige, he will not lose his temper with a woman.”

Captain Lige subsided. And just then they came in sight of the house of the Presidents, with its beautiful portico and its broad wings. And they turned in under the dripping trees of the grounds. A carriage with a black coachman and footman was ahead of them, and they saw two stately gentlemen descend from it and pass the guard at the door. Then their turn came. The Captain helped her out in his best manner, and gave some money to the driver.

“I reckon he needn't wait for us this time, Jinny,” said be. She shook her head and went in, he following, and they were directed to the anteroom of the President's office on the second floor. There were many people in the corridors, and one or two young officers in blue who stared at her. She passed them with her head high.

But her spirits sank when they came to the anteroom. It was full of all sorts of people. Politicians, both prosperous and seedy, full faced and keen faced, seeking office; women, officers, and a one-armed soldier sitting in the corner. He was among the men who offered Virginia their seats, and the only one whom she thanked. But she walked directly to the doorkeeper at the end of the room. Captain Lige was beside her.

“Can we see the President?” he asked.

“Have you got an appointment?” said the old man.

“No.”

“Then you'll have to wait your turn, sir,” he said, shaking his head and looking at Virginia. And he added. “It's slow work waiting your turn, there's so many governors and generals and senators, although the session's over. It's a busy time, miss.”

Virginia went very close to him.

“Oh, can't you do something?” she said. And added, with an inspiration, “I must see him. It's a matter of life and death.”

She saw instantly, with a woman's instinct, that these words had had their effect. The old man glanced at her again, as if demurring.

“You're sure, miss, it's life and death?” he said.

“Oh, why should I say so if it were not?” she cried.

“The orders are very strict,” he said. “But the President told me to give precedence to cases when a life is in question. Just you wait a minute, miss, until Governor Doddridge comes out, and I'll see what I can do for you. Give me your name, please, miss.”

She remained standing where she was. In a little while the heavy door opened, and a portly, rubicund man came out with a smile on his face. He broke into a laugh, when halfway across the room, as if the memory of what he had heard were too much for his gravity. The doorkeeper slipped into the room, and there was a silent, anxious interval. Then he came out again.

“The President will see you, miss.”

Captain Lige started forward with her, but she restrained him.

“Wait for me here, Lige,” she said.

She swept in alone, and the door closed softly after her. The room was a big one, and there were maps on the table, with pins sticking in them. She saw that much, and then—!

Could this fantastically tall, stooping figure before her be that of the President of the United States? She stopped, as from the shock he gave her. The lean, yellow face with the mask-like lines all up and down, the unkempt, tousled hair, the beard—why, he was a hundred times more ridiculous than his caricatures. He might have stood for many of the poor white trash farmers she had seen in Kentucky—save for the long black coat.

“Is—is this Mr. Lincoln?” she asked, her breath taken away.

He bowed and smiled down at her. Somehow that smile changed his face a little.

“I guess I'll have to own up,” he answered.

“My name is Virginia Carvel,” she said. “I have come all the way from St. Louis to see you.”

“Miss Carvel,” said the President, looking at her intently, “I have rarely been so flattered in my life. I—I hope I have not disappointed you.”

Virginia was justly angry.

“Oh, you haven't,” she cried, her eyes flashing, “because I am what you would call a Rebel.”

The mirth in the dark corners of his eyes disturbed her more and more. And then she saw that the President was laughing.

“And have you a better name for it, Miss Carvel?” he asked. “Because I am searching for a better name—just now.”

She was silent—sternly silent. And she tapped her foot on the carpet. What manner of man was this? “Won't you sit down?” said the President, kindly. “You must be tired after your journey.” And he put forth a chair.

“No, thank you,” said Virginia; “I think that I can say what I have come to say better standing.”

“Well,” said Mr. Lincoln, “that's not strange. I'm that way, too. The words seem to come out better. That reminds me of a story they tell about General Buck Tanner. Ever heard of Buck, Miss Carvel? No? Well, Buck was a character. He got his title in the Mormon war. One day the boys asked him over to the square to make a speech. The General was a little uneasy.

“'I'm all right when I get standing up, Liza,' he said to his wife. Then the words come right along. Only trouble is they come too cussed fast. How'm I going to stop 'em when I want to?'

“'Well, I du declare, Buck,' said she, 'I gave you credit for some sense. All you've got to do is to set down. That'll end it, I reckon.'

“So the General went over to the square and talked for about an hour and a half, and then a Chicago man shouted to him to dry up. The General looked pained.

“'Boys,' said he, 'it's jest every bit as bad for me as it is for you. You'll have to hand up a chair, boys, because I'm never going to get shet of this goldarned speech any anther way.'”

Mr. Lincoln had told this so comically that Virginia was forced to laugh, and she immediately hated herself. A man who could joke at such a time certainly could not feel the cares and responsibilities of his office. He should have been a comedian. And yet this was the President who had conducted the war, whose generals had conquered the Confederacy. And she was come to ask him a favor. Virginia swallowed her pride.

“Mr. Lincoln,” she began, “I have come to talk to you about my cousin, Colonel Clarence Colfax.”

“I shall be happy to talk to you about your cousin, Colonel Colfax, Miss Carvel. Is he your third or fourth cousin?”

“He is my first cousin,” she retorted.

“Is he in the city?” asked Mr. Lincoln, innocently. “Why didn't he come with you?”

“Oh, haven't you heard?” she cried. “He is Clarence Colfax, of St. Louis, now a Colonel in the army of the Confederate States.”

“Which army?” asked Mr. Lincoln. Virginia tossed her head in exasperation.

“In General Joseph Johnston's army,” she replied, trying to be patient. “But now,” she gulped, “now he has been arrested as a spy by General Sherman's army.”

“That's too bad,” answered Mr. Lincoln.

“And—and they are going to shoot him.”

“That's worse,” said Mr. Lincoln, gravely. “But I expect he deserves it.”

“Oh, no, he doesn't,” she cried. “You don't know how brave he is! He floated down the Mississippi on a log, out of Vicksburg, and brought back thousands and thousands of percussion caps. He rowed across the river when the Yankee fleet was going down, and set fire to De Soto so that they could see to shoot.”

“Well,” said Mr. Lincoln, “that's a good starter.” Then he looked thoughtful.

“Miss Carvel,” said he, “that argument reminds me of a story about a man I used to know in the old days in Illinois. His name was McNeil, and he was a lawyer.

“One day he was defending a prisoner for assault and battery before Judge Drake.

“'Judge, says McNeil, 'you oughtn't to lock this man up. It was a fair fight, and he's the best man in the state in a fair fight. And, what's more, he's never been licked in a fair fight in his life.'

“'And if your honor does lock me up,' the prisoner put in, 'I'll give your honor a thunderin' big lickin' when I get out.'

“The Judge took off his coat.

“'Gentlemen,' said he, 'it's a powerful queer argument, but the Court will admit it on its merits. The prisoner will please to step out on the grass.'”

This time Virginia contrived merely to smile. She was striving against something, she knew not what. Her breath was coming deeply, and she was dangerously near to tears. Why? She could not tell. She had come into this man's presence despising herself for having to ask him a favor. The sight of his face she had ridiculed. Now she could not look into it without an odd sensation. What was in it? Sorrow? Yes, that was nearest it.

What had the man done? Told her a few funny stories—given quizzical answers to some of her questions. Quizzical, yes; but she could not be sure then there was not wisdom in them, and that humiliated her. She had never conceived of such a man. And, be it added gratuitously, Virginia deemed herself something of an adept in dealing with men.

“And now,” said Mr. Lincoln, “to continue for the defence, I believe that Colonel Colfax first distinguished himself at the time of Camp Jackson, when of all the prisoners he refused to accept a parole.”

Startled, she looked up at him swiftly, and then down again. “Yes,” she answered, “yes. But oh, Mr. Lincoln, please don't hold that against him.”

If she could only have seen his face then. But her lashes were dropped.

“My dear young lady,” replied the President, “I honor him for it. I was merely elaborating the argument which you have begun. On the other hand, it is a pity that he should have taken off that uniform which he adorned and attempted to enter General Sherman's lines as a civilian,—as a spy.”

He had spoken these last words very gently, but she was too excited to heed his gentleness. She drew herself up, a gleam in her eyes like the crest of a blue wave in a storm.

“A spy!” she cried; “it takes more courage to be a spy than anything else in war. Then he will be shot. You are not content in, the North with what you have gained. You are not content with depriving us of our rights, and our fortunes, with forcing us back to an allegiance we despise. You are not content with humiliating our generals and putting innocent men in prisons. But now I suppose you will shoot us all. And all this mercy that I have heard about means nothing—nothing—”

Why did she falter and stop?

“Miss Carvel,” said the President, “I am afraid from what I have heard just now, that it means nothing.” Oh, the sadness of that voice,—the ineffable sadness,—the sadness and the woe of a great nation! And the sorrow in those eyes, the sorrow of a heavy cross borne meekly,—how heavy none will ever know. The pain of a crown of thorns worn for a world that did not understand. No wonder Virginia faltered and was silent. She looked at Abraham Lincoln standing there, bent and sorrowful, and it was as if a light had fallen upon him. But strangest of all in that strange moment was that she felt his strength. It was the same strength she had felt in Stephen Brice. This was the thought that came to her.

Slowly she walked to the window and looked out across the green grounds where the wind was shaking the wet trees, past the unfinished monument to the Father of her country, and across the broad Potomac to Alexandria in the hazy distance. The rain beat upon the panes, and then she knew that she was crying softly to herself. She had met a force that she could not conquer, she had looked upon a sorrow that she could not fathom, albeit she had known sorrow.

Presently she felt him near. She turned and looked through her tears at his face that was all compassion. And now she was unashamed. He had placed a chair behind her.

“Sit down, Virginia,” he said. Even the name fell from him naturally.

She obeyed him then like a child. He remained standing.

“Tell me about your cousin,” he said; “are you going to marry him?”

She hung an instant on her answer. Would that save Clarence? But in that moment she could not have spoken anything but the truth to save her soul.

“No, Mr. Lincoln,” she said; “I was—but I did not love him. I—I think that was one reason why he was so reckless.”

Mr. Lincoln smiled.

“The officer who happened to see Colonel Colfax captured is now in Washington. When your name was given to me, I sent for him. Perhaps he is in the anteroom now. I should like to tell you, first of all, that this officer defended your cousin and asked me to pardon him.”

“He defended him! He asked you to pardon him! Who is he?” she exclaimed.

Again Mr. Lincoln smiled. He strode to the bell-cord, and spoke a few words to the usher who answered his ring.

The usher went out. Then the door opened, and a young officer, spare, erect, came quickly into the room, and bowed respectfully to the President. But Mr. Lincoln's eyes were not on him. They were on the girl. He saw her head lifted, timidly. He saw her lips part and the color come flooding into her face. But she did not rise.

The President sighed But the light in her eyes was reflected in his own. It has been truly said that Abraham Lincoln knew the human heart.

The officer still stood facing the President, the girl staring at his profile. The door closed behind him. “Major Brice,” said Mr. Lincoln, “when you asked me to pardon Colonel Colfax, I believe that you told me he was inside his own skirmish lines when he was captured.”

“Yes, sir, he was.”

Suddenly Stephen turned, as if impelled by the President's gaze, and so his eyes met Virginia's. He forgot time and place,—for the while even this man whom he revered above all men. He saw her hand tighten on the arm of her chair. He took a step toward her, and stopped. Mr. Lincoln was speaking again.

“He put in a plea, a lawyer's plea, wholly unworthy of him, Miss Virginia. He asked me to let your cousin off on a technicality. What do you think of that?”

“Oh!” said Virginia. Just the exclamation escaped her—nothing more. The crimson that had betrayed her deepened on her cheeks. Slowly the eyes she had yielded to Stephen came back again and rested on the President. And now her wonder was that an ugly man could be so beautiful.

“I wish it understood, Mr. Lawyer,” the President continued, “that I am not letting off Colonel Colfax on a technicality. I am sparing his life,” he said slowly, “because the time for which we have been waiting and longing for four years is now at hand—the time to be merciful. Let us all thank God for it.”

Virginia had risen now. She crossed the room, her head lifted, her heart lifted, to where this man of sorrows stood smiling down at her.

“Mr. Lincoln,” she faltered, “I did not know you when I came here. I should have known you, for I had heard him—I had heard Major Brice praise you. Oh,” she cried, “how I wish that every man and woman and child in the South might come here and see you as I have seen you to-day. I think—I think that some of their bitterness might be taken away.”

Abraham Lincoln laid his hands upon the girl. And Stephen, watching, knew that he was looking upon a benediction.

“Virginia,” said Mr. Lincoln, “I have not suffered by the South, I have suffered with the South. Your sorrow has been my sorrow, and your pain has been my pain. What you have lost, I have lost. And what you have gained,” he added sublimely, “I have gained.”

He led her gently to the window. The clouds were flying before the wind, and a patch of blue sky shone above the Potomac. With his long arm he pointed across the river to the southeast, and as if by a miracle a shaft of sunlight fell on the white houses of Alexandria.

“In the first days of the war,” he said, “a flag flew there in sight of the place where George Washington lived and died. I used to watch that flag, and thank God that Washington had not lived to see it. And sometimes, sometimes I wondered if God had allowed it to be put in irony just there.” His voice seemed to catch. “That was wrong,” he continued. “I should have known that this was our punishment—that the sight of it was my punishment. Before we could become the great nation He has destined us to be, our sins must be wiped out in blood. You loved that flag, Virginia. You love it still.

“I say in all sincerity, may you always love it. May the day come when this Nation, North and South, may look back upon it with reverence. Thousands upon thousands of brave Americans have died under it for what they believed was right. But may the day come again when you will love that flag you see there now—Washington's flag—better still.”

He stopped, and the tears were wet upon Virginia's lashes. She could not have spoken then.

Mr. Lincoln went over to his desk and sat down before it. Then he began to write, slouched forward, one knee resting on the floor, his lips moving at the same time. When he got up again he seemed taller than ever.

“There!” he said, “I guess that will fix it. I'll have that sent to Sherman. I have already spoken to him about the matter.”

They did not thank him. It was beyond them both. He turned to Stephen with that quizzical look on his face he had so often seen him wear.

“Steve,” he said, “I'll tell you a story. The other night Harlan was here making a speech to a crowd out of the window, and my boy Tad was sitting behind him.

“'What shall we do with the Rebels?' said Harlan to the crowd.

“'Hang 'em!' cried the people. “'No,' says Tad, 'hang on to 'em.'

“And the boy was right. That is what we intend to do,—hang on to 'em. And, Steve,” said Mr. Lincoln, putting his hand again on Virginia's shoulder, “if you have the sense I think you have, you'll hang on, too.”

For an instant he stood smiling at their blushes,—he to whom the power was given to set apart his cares and his troubles and partake of the happiness of others. For of such was his happiness.

Then the President drew out his watch. “Bless me!” he said, “I am ten minutes behind my appointment at the Department. Miss Virginia, you may care to thank the Major for the little service he has done you. You can do so undisturbed here. Make yourselves at home.”

As he opened the door he paused and looked back at them. The smile passed from his face, and an ineffable expression of longing—longing and tenderness—came upon it.

Then he was gone.

For a space, while his spell was upon them, they did not stir. Then Stephen sought her eyes that had been so long denied him. They were not denied him now. It was Virginia who first found her voice, and she called him by his name.

“Oh, Stephen,” she said, “how sad he looked!”

He was close to her, at her side. And he answered her in the earnest tone which she knew so well.

“Virginia, if I could have had what I most wished for in the world, I should have asked that you should know Abraham Lincoln.”

Then she dropped her eyes, and her breath came quickly.

“I—I might have known,” she answered, “I might have known what he was. I had heard you talk of him. I had seen him in you, and I did not know. Do you remember that day when we were in the summer-house together at Glencoe, long ago? When you had come back from seeing him?”

“As yesterday,” he said.

“You were changed then,” she said bravely. “I saw it. Now I understand. It was because you had seen Mr. Lincoln.”

“When I saw him,” said Stephen, reverently, “I knew how little and narrow I was.”

Then, overcome by the incense of her presence, he drew her to him until her heart beat against his own. She did not resist, but lifted her face to him, and he kissed her.

“You love me, Virginia!” he cried.

“Yes, Stephen,” she answered, low, more wonderful in her surrender than ever before. “Yes—dear.” Then she hid her face against his blue coat. “I—I cannot help it. Oh, Stephen, how I have struggled against it! How I have tried to hate you, and couldn't. No, I couldn't. I tried to insult you, I did insult you. And when I saw how splendidly you bore it, I used to cry.” He kissed her brown hair.

“I loved you through it all,” he said.

“Virginia!”

“Yes, dearest.”

“Virginia, did you dream of me?”

She raised her head quickly, and awe was in her eyes. “How did you know?”

“Because I dreamed of you,” he answered. “And those dreams used to linger with me half the day as I went about my work. I used to think of them as I sat in the saddle on the march.”

“I, too, treasured them,” she said. “And I hated myself for doing it.”

“Virginia, will you marry me?”

“Yes.”

“To-morrow?”

“Yes, dear, to-morrow.” Faintly, “I have no one but you—now.”

Once more he drew her to him, and she gloried in his strength.

“God help me to cherish you, dear,” he said, “and guard you well.”

She drew away from him, gently, and turned toward the window.

“See, Stephen,” she cried, “the sun has come out at last.”

For a while they were silent, looking out; the drops glistened on blade and leaf, and the joyous new green of the earth entered into their hearts.