"Guess!" the low voice said.
He answered, quickly, "Di!"
"Yes, it's Di, Jim; and such a happy Di to see you again."
As he turned he half expected to see the tiny child as he had last seen her, with the puppy in her arms calling, "It's Di, Jim." For a moment they stood holding each other's hands and only the eyes of the two spoke. The thoughts of both involuntarily went back to their last meeting. They realized that unconsciously they had taken up their childhood manner. Slowly their hands unclasped and Diana was the first to speak.
"Oh, Jim, I should hardly know you. You are so big, so strong, and yet—you look as though you had been very ill; have you?"
She studied Jim's face closely, gaunt and drawn, but with the eyes still like gray pools of suppressed fire. Jim forgot the troubled thoughts that Henry's words had aroused. He only knew that Diana stood before him, young and beautiful. He threw back his head and laughed; it was the ringing, joyous laugh of a boy.
"And I almost thought, as I turned, that I could see my little Di," he said.
The memory of the delicate child faded into the tall, strong figure before him. Quickly he noted the complexities of her face; its newly acquired look of womanhood seemed curiously incongruous with the rest of her personality. He saw in her eyes a haunting expression of marked patience. The new acquaintance of the grown man and woman had adjusted itself.
"Oh, Jim, I'm so proud of you," Diana said, gravely. "You have really done something with your life that is worth while."
"Which means, I suppose, that the rest of us have not," a voice said.