"Don't!" she whispered in distress. "Don't! I—I never know what to do when people cry. Please!" Her voice altered suddenly. "Mother, you wait here a minute! You just wait here!"
Kate heard her leave the room, and then stooped to kiss her grandson good-by.
As she knelt there, tears raining fast on the tiny, unresponsive face in the coffin, she heard a step behind her. Thinking it was Jemima again, she did not look around.
It was some moments later that a memory came to her, so clear as to be almost a vision; the memory of her dream in Frankfort—a man standing near, with bent shoulders and gray hair, but eyes as blue as a child's, as tender as a woman's, gazing down at her, smiling down....
Behind her sounded a slight cough.
She lifted her head, suddenly trembling. "Who—who is there?" she whispered.
A voice answered, very low—"Kate!—Kate!"
Without another word, without a glance to make sure, she rose and went blindly into the arms that were ready for her.
It was like coming home.