Triumphant Cry
Barbara had already wakened and she sat up, rubbing her eyes. The attic was almost dark. She went downstairs hurriedly, forgetting her borrowed finery until her long train caught on a projecting splinter and had to be loosened. When she reached her own door she started toward her mirror, anxious to see how she looked, but that triumphant cry from the room below made her heart stand still.
White as death and strangely fearful, she went down and into the living-room, where the last light deepened the shadows and lay lovingly upon her father's illumined face.
Barbara smiled and went toward him, with her hands outstretched in welcome. Miriam shrank back into the farthest shadows, shaking as though she had seen a ghost.
There was an instant's tense silence. All the forces of life and love seemed suddenly to have concentrated into the space of a single heart-beat. Then the old man spoke.
"Constance," he said, unsteadily, "have you come back, Beloved? It has been so long!"
Radiant with beauty no woman had ever worn before, Barbara went to him, still smiling, and the old man's arms closed hungrily about her. "I dreamed you were dead," he sobbed, "but I knew you died loving me. Where is our baby, Constance? Where is my Flower of the Dusk?"
Burden of Joy
Even as he spoke, the overburdened heart failed beneath its burden of joy. He staggered and would have fallen, had not Miriam caught him in her strong arms. Together, they helped him to the couch, where he lay down, breathing with great difficulty.
"Constance, darling," he gasped, feebly, "where is our baby? I want Barbara."