"You won't need to be frightened. I understand, I think--and here's your
key, I always carry it in my pocket. Your Father's candle is on the
mantel. You shall have to-night to yourself. Good-night, and bless your
home-coming, dear!"

"Good-night," I answered as I turned away from his kind eyes quickly, to
keep from clinging-to him with might and main, and crossed the road to
my own gate. With my head up, and trying for the whistle, at least in my
heart, I went quickly along the front walk with its rows of blush
peonies, nodding along either edge. The two old purple lilacs beside the
front steps have grown so large they seemed to be barring my way into my
home with longing, sweet embraces, and a fragrant little climbing
rose, that has rioted across the front door, ever since I could
remember, bent down and left a kiss on my cheeks.

The warm, mellow old moon flooded a glow in front of me, through the big
front door, as I opened it, and then hastened to pour into the wide
windows as I threw back the shutters.

Logs lay ready for lighting in the wide fireplace at the end of the long
room, and Father's tobacco jar gleamed a reflected moonlight from its
pewter sides from the tall mantel-shelf. The old hooks melted into the
dusk of their cases along the wall, and the portrait of Grandfather
Shelby lost its fierce gaze and became benign from its place between the
windows.

I was being welcomed to the home of my fathers, with a soft dusk that
was as still and sweet as the grave. Sweet for those that want it; but I
didn't. Suddenly, I thrilled as alive as any terror-stricken woman that
ever found herself alone anywhere on any other edge of the world, and