"It's done, Daddy!" cried an excited voice. "It's the cutest little gingerbread man. And supper's ready, and he's standing up by my plate."
"All right!" said Dan, holding out one hand to him and one to Nance.
"We'll all go in together to see the gingerbread man."
"But, Dan—"
"Just this once; it's our good-by night, you know."
Nance hesitated, then straightening the prim little gray bonnet that would assume a jaunty tilt, she followed the tall figure and the short one into the halo of light that circled the open door.
The evening that followed was one of those rare times, insignificant in itself, every detail of which was to stand out in after life, charged with significance. For Nance, the warmth and glow of the homely little house, with its flowered carpets and gay curtains, the beaming face of old Mrs. Purdy in its frame of silver curls, the laughter of the happy child, and above all the strong, tender presence of Dan, were things never to be forgotten.
At eight o'clock she rose reluctantly, saying that she had to go by the
Snawdors' before she reported at the hospital at nine o'clock.
"Do you mind if I go that far with you?" asked Dan, wistfully.
On their long walk across the city they said little. Their way led them past many familiar places, the school house, the old armory, Cemetery Street, Post-Office Square, where they used to sit and watch the electric signs. Of the objects they passed, Dan was superbly unaware. He saw only Nance. But she was keenly aware of every old association that bound them together. Everything seemed strangely beautiful to her, the glamorous shop-lights cutting through the violet gloom, the subtle messages of lighted windows, the passing faces of her fellow-men. In that gray world her soul burned like a brilliant flame lighting up everything around her.
As they turned into Calvary Alley the windows of the cathedral glowed softly above them.