The familiar atmosphere and the comfortable chair in which he sat brought him that peculiar peace of home which is one of the greatest gifts travel can bestow.  Even the ticking of the clock came to his senses gratefully.  Home at last, after all the pain, the dreary nights and days of acute loneliness, and only one more day to wait—­perhaps.

“To see again,” he thought.  “I am glad I came home first.  To-morrow, if God is good to me, I shall see my baby—­and the letter.  I have dreamed so often that she could walk and I could see!”

He took the two sheets of paper from his pocket and spread them out upon his knee.  He moved his hands lovingly across the pages—­the one written upon, the other blank.  “She died loving me,” he said to himself.  “To-morrow I shall see it, in her own hand.”

[Sidenote:  Why Not To-Day]

Sunset flamed behind the hills and brought into the little room faint threads of gold and amethyst that wove a luminous tapestry with the dusk.  The clock ticked steadily, and with every cheery tick brought nearer that dear To-Morrow of which he had dreamed so long.  He speculated upon the difference made by the slow passage of a few hours.  To-morrow, at this time, his bandages would be off—­then why not to-day?

The letter fell to the floor and he picked it up, one sheet at a time, fretfully.  The bandage around his temples and the gauze and cotton held firmly against his eyes all at once grew intolerable.  It was the last few miles to the weary traveller, the last hour that lay between the lover and his beloved, the darkness before the dawn.  He had been very patient, but at last had come to the end.

[Sidenote:  He Opens his Eyes]

If only the bandages were off!  “If they were,” he thought, “I need not open my eyes—­I could keep them closed until to-morrow.”  He raised his hands and worked carefully at the surgical knots until the outer strip was loosened.  He wound it slowly off, then cautiously removed the layers of cotton and gauze.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he leaned back in his chair, with his eyes closed, determined to keep faith with the physicians, and, above all, with Doctor Conrad, who had been so very kind.  There was no pain at all—­only weakness.  If the room were absolutely dark, perhaps he might open his eyes for a moment or two.  Why should to-morrow be so different from to-day?

The letter was in his hands—­that dear letter which said, “I have loved him, I love him still, and have never loved him more than I do to-day.”  The temptation worked subtly in his mind as strong wine might in his blood.  Perhaps, after all, he could not see—­the doctors had not given him a positive promise.

The fear made him faint, then surging hope and infinite longing merged into perfect belief—­and trust.  Unable to endure the strain of waiting longer, he opened his eyes, and as swiftly closed them again.

“I can see,” he whispered, shrilly.  “Oh, I can see!”