“And the matter of the will was all disposed of by the probate judge today, I hear,” said the judge, his hand on the door.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then your life is all before you, to make of it what you will,” said he, placing his hand on her shoulder, as she stood with him in the dim hall. He opened the study door. The wood on the grate was blazing brightly. Ollie saw someone standing before it, bending slightly forward in the pose of expectation. He was tall and of familiar figure, and the firelight was playing in the tossed curls of his short, fair hair.
“In there,” said the judge, “if you care to go.”
Ollie did not stir. Her feet felt rooted to the floor in the wonder and doubt of this strange occurrence.
“Ollie!” cried the man at the hearthstone, calling her name imploringly. He came forward, holding out pleading hands.
She stood a moment, as if gathering herself to a resolution. A sob rose in her throat, and broke from her lips transformed into a trembling, sharp, glad cry. It was as if she had cast the clot of sorrow from her heart. Then she passed into the room and met him.
Judge Maxwell closed the door.