When I felt rested, and better, I asked him if we should start now.
“Just as you please,” he said quietly. “There is no hurry. We are never hurried.”
“If we have anything to do,” I said, “I had rather do it now I think.”
“Very well,” said Father, “that is like you.” He rose and held out his hand again. I took it once more, and once more we went out to the threshold of our old home. This time I felt more confidence, but when the night air swept in, I could not help shrinking a little in spite of myself, and showing the agitation which overtook me.
“Father!” I cried, “Father! where are we going?”
My father turned at this, and looked at me solemnly. His face seemed to shine and glow. He looked from what I felt was a great height. He said:—
“Are you really afraid, Mary, to go anywhere with me?”
“No, no!” I protested in a passion of regret and trust, “my dear father! I would go any where in earth or Heaven with you!”
“Then come,” he said softly.
I clasped both hands, interlocking them through his arm, and we shut the door and went down the steps together and out into the winter dawn.