Turning swiftly to the hall, the woman almost flew along the corridor to meet her husband's steps. Drawing him to one side, she told with rapture of her encounter and the sweet expectancy below.
"Now, Harold, Heaven has sent us a child, who shall be the angel to roll away the stone from our grave. His wonderful vision must not be darkened, neither his faith destroyed. Rise, my husband, to the most glorious hour of your life. 'I shall know him by the love,' he said. Let us see that he does."
Returning for the child and extending her hand with a smile, he eagerly asked, "Will you wash and comb me to meet my papa? It isn't too late yet, is it?"
The voice was half a sob, but full of hope. The ineffable trust pierced her heart while reassuring him with swift, tender tones.
"Come, Phillip, we will go to him," she cried tremblingly.
As she opened the door upon a winning, noble-faced man with tears on his cheek, smiling with outstretched arms upon the boy, he hesitated a moment, took one step forward and then leaped into the open arms, threw his noble head back, and gazed with lustrous, questioning eyes.
"You don't look like my papa, quite."
"No?" (anxiously).
"'Cause you are changed. But I know you by the love, and you know me, don't you?"
"By the love, dear boy," with shining eyes, but marble lips.