The girl uttered a smothered cry, a sob of joy, and, turning, rushed to the house and up to the darkened room where her sister lay. She ran to the bed and bent over the quiet figure. “Oh, Christine, Christine,” she cried, “he is coming! They are coming!”
Christine raised herself on her elbow. “Who? Who?” she asked in a shaking voice. “What do you mean, Alison?”
“They are coming. At last they are coming. You didn’t know that Neal went, that I sent him, to find Steve, and oh, Christine, he has found him. They are coming.”
“Thank God! Thank God!” Christine tottered to her feet, and the two fell into each other’s arms, weeping hysterically.
Below stairs there was the sound of feet moving across the gallery slowly, as if supporting a burden. “Come, come,” said Alison grasping her sister’s hand. And they went down to find that John, too, had seen the approach of his friends, and with Neal’s assistance was helping Steve into the house. He lay exhausted upon the couch. Christine dropped on her knees beside him. He raised a feeble hand and laid it on her head. “I’ve got here at last, Tina,” he said; “I thought I’d peg out before I did, but Neal kept me up, God bless him.”
Christine had no words; she could only kneel there sobbing. All the pent-up grief of the past years found vent at last. He had come, and although pale and thin and worn, he was safe.
Under a mask of lightness Alison hid her real feelings. She looked at Neal and laughed. “Well, little lady,” he said, “I did it.”
“So I see,” she returned. “Right glad am I to welcome you back again, Sir Artegall.” She backed away towards the door between the rooms.
“And my reward,” said Neal following her up.
“I promised you my hand, didn’t I?” She slipped through the door and swung it together, holding it fast. Presently she opened it a crack, and her hand wearing its ring, appeared. “Here it is,” she said. With a quick movement Neal flung the door open and caught her. Then the door swung to and they passed out into the open air. The soft dusk had settled down suddenly. The jar of night insects was beginning to be heard; dim-winged moths fluttered out from their retreats; from the vine over the porch a mocking-bird sent forth its song. The yellow glory had faded to a tender line of palest light along the west. Alison stood facing it.