It was semi-twilight. He picked his way up and knocked gently.
So gently, Dil was sure of a customer for her mother. The babies were asleep. Bess was fixed in her wagon. Dil had some patches of bright colors that she was going to sew together, and make a new carriage rug.
She opened the door just a little way. He pushed it wider, and glanced in.
“Oh, have you forgotten me?” he exclaimed. “Did you think I would not come?”
Dil stood in a strange, sweet, guilty abasement. She had disbelieved him. Bess gave a soft, thrilling cry of delight, and stretched out her hands.
“I knew you would come,” and there was a tremulous exaltation in her weak voice.
“I’ve only been in town a few days. I have been staying with a cousin who met with a sad accident and is still ill. But I have run away for an hour or two; and I have brought Bess’s picture.”
He was taking a little survey of the room. The stove shone. The floor was clean. The white curtain made a light spot in the half gloom. The warmth felt grateful, coming out of the chilly air, though it was rather close. Dil did not look as well as on the summer day. Her eyes were heavy, with purple shadows underneath; the “bang” of the morning had left some traces. And Bess was wasted to a still frailer wraith, if such a thing was possible.
They both looked up eagerly, as he untied the package, and slipped out of an envelope a delicately tinted photograph.