Mary, won't you--let me see you again--near?
I think I could make you really forgive me--you'd have to--" "I DID--then." "No--not really--or you wouldn't have said you couldn't see me any more." "That wasn't the reason." The voice was very low.
"Mary," he said, even more tremulously than before, "I can't--you COULDN'T mean it was because--you can't mean it was because you--care ?" There was no answer.
"Mary ?" he called, huskily.

"If you mean THAT--you'd let me see you--wouldn't you ?" And now the voice was so low he could not be sure it spoke at all, but if it did, the words were, "Yes, Bibbs--dear." But the voice was not in the instrument--it was so gentle and so light, so almost nothing, it seemed to be made of air--and it came from the air.
Slowly and incredulously he turned--and glory fell upon his shining eyes.

The door of his father's room had opened.
Mary stood upon the threshold.
THE END.