She laughed and met his wondering gaze again frankly. "My eyes are
pleased," she said. "I'm glad that you miss me a little after you
go."

"But to-morrow's coming faster than other days if you'll let it," he
said.

She inclined her head. "Yes. I'll--'let it'!"

"Going to church," said Bibbs. "It IS going to church when I go with
you!"

She went to the front door with him; she always went that far. They
had formed a little code of leave-taking, by habit, neither of them
ever speaking of it; but it was always the same. She always stood
in the doorway until he reached the sidewalk, and there he always
turned and looked back, and she waved her hand to him. Then he went
on, halfway to the New House, and looked back again, and Mary was not
in the doorway, but the door was open and the light shone. It was as
if she meant to tell him that she would never shut him out; he could
always see that friendly light of the open doorway--as if it were
open for him to come back, if he would. He could see it until a wing
of the New House came between, when he went up the path. The open
doorway seemed to him the beautiful symbol of her friendship--of her
thought of him; a symbol of herself and of her ineffable kindness.

And she kept the door open--even to-night, though the sleet and fine
snow swept in upon her bare throat and arms, and her brown hair was
strewn with tiny white stars. His heart leaped as he turned and saw
that she was there, waving her hand to him, as if she did not know