He knocked at her door.  “Won’t you come out here a moment?” cried he, putting it in that form because he had never adventured her intimate threshold.

No answer, though the door was ajar and she must have heard.

“Please come out here,” he repeated.

A pause; then, in her voice, shy but resolute, the single word, “Come!”

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE DEAD THAT LIVE

On the green oval within and opposite the entrance to the main campus of the great university there is the colossal statue of a master workman.  The sculptor has done well.  He does not merely show you the physical man—­the mass, the strength, of bone and sinew and muscle; he reveals the man within—­the big, courageous soul.  Strangers often think this statue a personation of the force which in a few brief generations has erected from a wilderness our vast and splendid America.  And it is that; but to Arthur and Adelaide, standing before it in a June twilight, long after the events above chronicled, it is their father—­Hiram.

“How alive he seems,” says his daughter.

And his son answers:  “How alive he is!”