Hedged in by earth and hopelessly put asunder, could it at last come to fulfilment through daughter and son?  At the thought his heart swelled with a pure passion all its own—­the eager pulse-beats owed nothing to the dead.

[Sidenote:  Out into the Night]

He found a sheet of paper and reverently wrapped up the little brown book.  An hour later, he slipped under the string a letter of his own, sealed and addressed, and quietly, though afraid that the beating of his heart sounded in the stillness, went out into the night.

XXIV

The Bells in the Tower

The sea was very blue behind the Tower of Cologne, though it was not yet dawn.  The velvet darkness, in that enchanted land, seemed to have a magical quality—­it veiled but did not hide.  Barbara went up the glass steps, made of cologne bottles, and opened the door.

[Sidenote:  The Tower Unchanged]

She had not been there for a long time, but nothing was changed.  The winding stairway hung with tapestries and the round windows at the landings, through which one looked to the sea, were all the same.

King Arthur, Sir Lancelot and Guinevere were all in the Tower, as usual.  The Lady of Shalott was there, with Mr. Pickwick, Dora, and Little Nell.  All the dear people of the books moved through the lovely rooms, sniffing at cologne, or talking and laughing with each other, just as they pleased.

The red-haired young man and the two blue and white nurses were still there, but they seemed to be on the point of going out.  Doctor Conrad and Eloise were in every room she went into.  Eloise was all in white, like a bride, and the Doctor was very, very happy.

Ambrose North was there, no longer blind or dead, but well and strong and able to see.  He took Barbara in his arms when she went in, kissed her, and called her “Constance.”

A sharp pang went through her heart because he did not know her.  “I’m Barbara, Daddy,” she cried out; “don’t you know me?” But he only murmured, “Constance, my Beloved,” and kissed her again—­not with a father’s kiss, but with a yearning tenderness that seemed very strange.  She finally gave up trying to make him understand that her name was Barbara—­that she was not Constance at all.  At last she said, “It doesn’t matter by what name you call me, as long as you love me,” and went on upstairs.

[Sidenote:  An Unfinished Tapestry]

One of the tapestries that hung on the wall along the winding stairway was new—­at least she did not remember having seen it before.  It was in the soft rose and gold and brown and blue of the other tapestries, and appeared old, as though it had been hanging there for some time.  She fingered it curiously.  It felt and looked like the others, but it must be new, for it was not quite finished.