Let’s be dancing when they come in; keep on playing!”
At this instant the door opened and Margaret put in her head. “Somebody,” she said, with a low bow, “wants to see Mr. Mark on business.”
Mark, looking like a gallant of the old school, excused himself with a great flourish to the Little Gray Lady and strode out. In the hall, with his back to the light, stood a broad-shouldered man muffled to the chin in a fur overcoat. The boy was about to apologize for his costume and then ask the man’s errand, when the stranger turned quickly and gripped his wrist.
“Hush—not a word! Where is she?” he cried.
With a low whistle of surprise Mark pushed open the door. The stranger stepped in.
The Little Gray Lady raised her head.
“And who can this new guest be?” she asked—“and in what a queer costume, too!”
The man drew himself up to his full height and threw wide his coat: “And you don’t know me, Annie?”
She did not take her eyes from his face, nor did she move except to turn her head appealingly to the room as if she feared they were playing her another trick.
He had reached her side and stood looking down at her. Again came the voice—a strong, clear voice, with a note of infinite tenderness through it:
“How white your hair is, Annie; and your hand is so thin! Have I changed like this?”
She leaned forward, scanning him eagerly.
There was a little cry, then all her soul went out in the one word:
“Harry!”
She was inside the big coat now, his strong arms around her, her head hidden on his breast, only the tips of her toes on the floor.
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