Dalny opened it in the face of the old man. He was bareheaded, his eyes blazing with excitement, his face flushed as if by some uncontrollable joy.
"Come—quick!" he cried; "we are all ready. It was perfected this morning. We have been putting things in order for you, for we do not ever have guests. But you must be careful—your eyes are not accustomed, perhaps, and——"
Dalny darted back without listening to the old man's conclusion, and threw on his coat. The faded sister was upstairs, and he must be presentable.
"And you like your picture," burst out Dalny, as he adjusted his collar and cuffs—part of the old man's happiness had reached his own heart now.
"Like it? It is not something to like, Mr. Dalny. It is not a meal; it is a religion. You are in a fog, and the sun bursts through; you are in a tunnel, and are swept out into green fields; you grope in the dark, and an angel leads you to the light. You do not 'like' things then—you thank God on your knees. Louise has done nothing but cry."
These words came in shortened sentences divided by the mounting of each step, the two hurrying up the stairs, "Old Sunshine" ahead, Dalny following.
The sister was waiting for them at the open door. She had a snow-white kerchief over her shoulders and a quaint cap on her head, evidently her best. Her eyes, still red from weeping, shone like flashes of sunshine through falling rain.
"Keep him here, Louise, until I get my umbrella—I am afraid. No; stay till I come for you—" this to Dalny, who was, in his eagerness, peering into the well-swept, orderly looking room. "Shut your eyes until I tell you—quick! under this umbrella" (he had picked it up just inside the door).
Dalny suffered himself to be led into the room, his head smothered under the umbrella, the old man's hand firmly grasping his as if the distance between the door and the masterpiece was along the edge of an abyss.