There was a sound of carriage wheels on the drive.  He arose and began to assist her with her wraps.  “It is too bad for you to be dependent on even such nice escorts as the Dillinghams are,” he solaced, recovering himself.  “We college folk are a sorry lot.”

But when she was gone, the mood for composition which an hour before had seemed so near had escaped him, and he put away his books and manuscript, standing for a while, a little chilled in mind and body, before the grate and looking at the photograph on the mantel.  While he did so the haunting likeness he had seen grew more distinct and by degrees another face overspread that of his young daughter, the face of the sister he had loved and lost.

With a sudden impulse he crossed the room to an old-fashioned mahogany secretary, opened its slanting lid, and unlocking with some difficulty a small inner drawer, returned with it to his desk.  Several packages of letters tied with faded ribbon filled the small receptacle, but they struck upon him with the strangeness of something utterly forgotten.  The pieces of ribbon had once held for him each its own association of time or place; now he could only remember, looking down upon them with tender gaze, that they had been Stella’s, worn in her hair, or at her throat or waist.  Simple and inexpensive he saw they were.  Arnoldina would not have looked at them.

Overcoming something of reluctance, he took one of the packages from its place.  It contained the letters he had found in her writing-table after her death, most of them written after she had come to Vaucluse by her stepmother and the friends she had left in the village.  He knew there was nothing in any of them she would have withheld from him; in reading them he was merely taking back something from the vanished years which, if not looked at now, would perish utterly from earth.  How affecting they were—­these utterances of true and humble hearts, written to one equally true and good!  His youth and hers in the remote country village rose before him; not now, as once, pinched and narrow, but as salutary, even gracious.  He could but feel how changed his standards had become since then, how different his measure of the great and the small of life.

Suddenly, as he was thus borne back into the past, the old sorrow sprang upon him, and he bowed before it.  The old bitter cry which he had been able to utter to no human consoler swept once more to his lips:  “Oh, Stella, Stella, you died before I really knew you; your brother, who should have known and loved you best!  And now it is too late, too late.”

He sent out as of old his voiceless call to one afar off, in some land where her whiteness, her budding soul, had found their rightful place; but even as he did so, his thought of her seemed to be growing clearer.  From that far, reverenced, but unimagined sphere she was coming back to the range of his apprehension, to comradeship in the life which they once had shared together.