Again the low hanging sun at the western end of Jane Street, cherry-red in the river mist, washing out all shabbiness and squalor in a rosy bath of light.
A barrel-organ, played by an old, old man, drew legions of ragged children to the pavement in front of her house, where they whirled like gnats at sunset, dancing to some forgotten rag—the sun spinning its nimbus around each dishevelled, childish head.
Annan made his way through the milling swarm with a caress for those who stumbled across his path and a silver-piece tossed to the ancient where he leaned on his organ, bent almost double, tears perpetual in his sunken eyes.
He ran up the stairs; knocked.
“Hello, Hattie,” he tried to say—scarcely conscious of voice at all, or sight or hearing.
“Go right in, Mr. Annan, suh——”
He was already going, not knowing any longer what he was about. The sun-glare on the windows dazzled him a moment before he saw her.
She was standing at the further end of the room. He went slowly toward her, not knowing how they were to meet after ages of dead days.
Then, still knowing nothing, he took her into his arms.
Her mouth warmed slightly against his. As his embrace tightened, her hands hovered close to his shoulders, touched them, crept upward.