At an early hour the next day he went to Cesarea, and sought her in her father’s house. It was a cold, dry, bright day. Cesarea shivered under her ermine. The Professor’s house was warm with the luxurious, even warmth of the latest modern heater, envied by the rest of the Faculty, in the old-fashioned, draughty houses of the Professors’ Row. Flowers in the little window conservatory of the drawing-room breathed the soft air easily, and were of rich growth and color. Helen was watering the flowers. She colored when she saw him, and put down the silver pitcher which she had abstracted from the breakfast-room for the purpose of encouraging her lemon verbena, that had, plainly, missed her while she was abroad. She wore a purple morning-gown with plush upon it. She had a royal look. “How early you have come!” she said half complainingly. He paid no attention to her tone, but deliberately shut the door, and advanced towards her. “I have come,” he said, “to _stay_; that is--if you will let me, Helen.” “Apparently,” answered Helen, taking up the pitcher, “I am not allowed a choice in the matter.” But he saw that the silver pitcher shook in her hand. “No,” he said firmly, “I do not mean to give you any choice. I mean to take you. I do not mean to wait one hour more.” He held out his arms, but suspended them, not touching her. The very air which he imprisoned around her seemed to clasp her. She trembled in that intangible embrace. “It will be a poor man’s home, Helen--but you will not suffer. I can give you common comforts. I cabled to you the very hour that I knew.... Oh, I have trusted your trust!” he said. “And you _may_ trust it,” whispered Helen, suddenly lifting her eyes. His, it seemed to her, were far above her--how blinding beautiful joy made them! Then his starved arms closed about her, and his lips found hers. * * * * * The Professor of Theology sat in his study. The winter sun struck his loaded shelves; the backs of his books inspected him tenderly. At the western window, on the lady’s desk which was reserved for Mrs. Carruth, her sewing-basket stood. The Professor glanced at it contentedly. He had never been separated from his wife so long before, and they had been married thirty-five years. She had unpacked that basket and taken it into the study that morning, with a girlish eagerness to sit down and darn a stocking while the Professor wrote. “This is a great gratification, Statira,” he had said. Mrs. Carruth had gone out, now, to engage in the familiar delights of a morning contest with the Cesarea butcher, and the Professor was alone when Emanuel Bayard sturdily knocked at the study door. The Professor welcomed the young man with some surprise, but no uncertain warmth. He expressed himself as grateful for the prompt attention of his former pupil, on the joyful occasion of this family reunion.