In a few minutes Miss Alcott returned, her eyes moistened, and simply said:  “Come.”

The boy followed her through two rooms, and at the threshold of the third, Miss Emerson stood, also with moistened eyes.

“Father,” she said simply, and there, at his desk, sat Emerson—­the man whose words had already won Edward Bok’s boyish interest, and who was destined to impress himself upon his life more deeply than any other writer.

Slowly, at the daughter’s spoken word, Emerson rose with a wonderful quiet dignity, extended his hand, and as the boy’s hand rested in his, looked him full in the eyes.

No light of welcome came from those sad yet tender eyes.  The boy closed upon the hand in his with a loving pressure, and for a single moment the eyelids rose, a different look came into those eyes, and Edward felt a slight, perceptible response of the hand.  But that was all!

Quietly he motioned the boy to a chair beside the desk.  Edward sat down and was about to say something, when, instead of seating himself, Emerson walked away to the window and stood there softly whistling and looking out as if there were no one in the room.  Edward’s eyes had followed Emerson’s every footstep, when the boy was aroused by hearing a suppressed sob, and as he looked around he saw that it came from Miss Emerson.  Slowly she walked out of the room.  The boy looked at Miss Alcott, and she put her finger to her mouth, indicating silence.  He was nonplussed.

Edward looked toward Emerson standing in that window, and wondered what it all meant.  Presently Emerson left the window and, crossing the room, came to his desk, bowing to the boy as he passed, and seated himself, not speaking a word and ignoring the presence of the two persons in the room.

Suddenly the boy heard Miss Alcott say:  “Have you read this new book by Ruskin yet?”

Slowly the great master of thought lifted his eyes from his desk, turned toward the speaker, rose with stately courtesy from his chair, and, bowing to Miss Alcott, said with great deliberation:  “Did you speak to me, madam?”

The boy was dumfounded!  Louisa Alcott, his Louisa!  And he did not know her!  Suddenly the whole sad truth flashed upon the boy.  Tears sprang into Miss Alcott’s eyes, and she walked to the other side of the room.  The boy did not know what to say or do, so he sat silent.  With a deliberate movement Emerson resumed his seat, and slowly his eyes roamed over the boy sitting at the side of the desk.  He felt he should say something.

“I thought, perhaps, Mr. Emerson,” he said, “that you might be able to favor me with a letter from Carlyle.”

At the mention of the name Carlyle his eyes lifted, and he asked:  “Carlyle, did you say, sir, Carlyle?”

“Yes,” said the boy, “Thomas Carlyle.”

“Ye-es,” Emerson answered slowly.  “To be sure, Carlyle.  Yes, he was here this morning.  He will be here again to-morrow morning,” he added gleefully, almost like a child.