He avoided the main entrance to his kinsman’s grounds, and took a narrow, winding path, hedged with rich, close growth of arbor vitæ. At last he reached the house, and passed into the library to wait. As he entered, a graceful figure in black disappeared through another door. She had evidently been sitting solitary reading, for the leaves of a little book on the table were still fluttering. It had a look somehow familiar. Mr. Waddy stepped toward the table and picked it up.
It was his own Testament, gift of childish friendship confirmed by after love, companion of all his better moments, and talisman of safety to his wide-wandering, bewildered life.
He raised the time-worn, tear-worn, wave-worn volume to his lips and, sitting down, covered his face with his hands, and yielded for a moment to the need of happy tears.
He was aroused by a gentle touch upon his shoulder. He turned. It was his old love; his love unforgotten, through all those years of desolate exile, and now—now, his own love forever.
And this was the full Return of Mr. Ira Waddy.
THE END
“The impression on the reader is so strong that
he finds his grip on the book grow strained in spite
of himself.”—Boston Transcript.
In the Dwellings
of the Wilderness