Then he went on, halfway to the New House, and looked back again, and Mary was not in the doorway, but the door was open and the light shone.

It was as if she meant to tell him that she would never shut him out; he could always see that friendly light of the open doorway--as if it were open for him to come back, if he would.

He could see it until a wing of the New House came between, when he went up the path.

The open doorway seemed to him the beautiful symbol of her friendship--of her thought of him; a symbol of herself and of her ineffable kindness.
And she kept the door open--even to-night, though the sleet and fine snow swept in upon her bare throat and arms, and her brown hair was strewn with tiny white stars.

His heart leaped as he turned and saw that she was there, waving her hand to him, as if she did not know that the storm touched her.