The two hands met in a clasp that each sought to make frank and hearty. But hands are less docile than faces in masking their heart’s mandates. And the fingers that met so formally forgot somehow to unclasp. Dad found the little woman’s hand nestling quite comfortably and contentedly in the big grip of his own. And if she struggled to withdraw it, the struggle was so very faint as to escape the notice of either of them.
Dad had risen to his feet. Through the gloom he was looking down at the half-seen figure whose hand he held. And something long, long dead was stirring strangely in his heart and his soul.
Very reverently he lifted the little hand and laid it against his lips; holding it there a moment while the tender sweetness of the contact mounted like music to his brain. Reluctantly he unclasped his fingers from about their precious burden. And for a space he and his hostess stood staring wide-eyed into each other’s half-invisible faces.
Then—
“If my daughter could see me now,” said Mrs. Sessions, a little break in the laugh she forced to her lips, “she’d say I was an old fool.”
“If my son could see me now,” answered Dad, “he’d say I was not only an old fool, but an old scoundrel as well. But Jimmie wouldn’t. Jimmie would understand. Jimmie always understands. Oh, you must meet Jimmie!”
“I’d love to. I’d love to be just like a mother to the boy who’s done so much for—”
“If you don’t mind,” ventured Dad bashfully, “I’d a lot rather you’d be just like a—a grandmother to him.”
Then in the dark there—very simply, like two little children, they kissed.
And on the instant, the quaint old-world stillness of the attic was split by the noise of many pounding hoof-beats.