"Oh," she called, "will you stop—will you wait?"
He stopped short, turned. She was halfway down the stair, which was not long. "I beg your pardon. Was it to me you were speaking?"
"Yes!" She came up with him—they stood together in the light-washed doorway. "I—You do not remember me." She put up her hand and took off her wide hat of straw and lace. "Do you, now?"
He gazed. "No—Yes! Wait.... Oh—h! You are the little girl again!"
They both laughed with pure pleasure. A soft, bright swirl of feeling enfolded the ancient doorway.
"Oh," she said, "I have so often thought of you!"
"Not oftener than I have thought of you.... You've always been like a quaint, bright picture and a piece of music in my mind.—I don't know your name."
"Hagar Ashendyne.—And I don't know yours."
"Denny Gayde.... I tried to find you in the crowd that night—the night of the meeting, you remember—but you were gone."
"Yes. And for weeks after that night I used to think that perhaps I might meet you on the street any day. And then I went away."