“What’s the matter with us?” Julie thought violently, unconsciously classing herself with him. “Why can’t folks see us? We’re there just like anybody else, but they always act like they didn’t see us. Someway we stand outside of people’s minds, an’ have to wait for them to open an’ let us in. And they never do.” Suddenly familiar words flashed upon her with such vividness as to leave her giddy. “Behold, I stand at the door and knock.” She was aware of so enormous an extension of understanding that the whole of it was beyond her grasp, making her feel for an instant as though she reeled into a larger world. She knew that it was just Mr. Bixby sitting there, silent and embarrassed, shut away from life by the impersonal eyes upon him; and yet in that moment of insight it seemed to her that the great essence of humanity was there looking forth from the caged bars of the little man’s face, waiting patiently, terribly, for an invitation to enter. “I got to let him in--I _got_ to get the door open someway an’ let him in!” she thought fiercely. She moved forward quickly, holding out her plate of waffles. “Have a fresh waffle, Mr. Bixby,” she urged. “These are nice and crisp. I’d like for _you_ to try one.” It was all perfectly simple and natural, and yet the slight emphasis she laid upon the personal pronoun seemed to open the door for him that he might emerge into the life of a real human being, set free from the negative limbo to which the others had driven him. He looked up quickly and gladly into her face, with that look of release and freedom, and the breaking of a constricting cord which she had read in his expression before. “I thank you, I thank you, Miss Julie,” he said gratefully. It was the first time he had dared the intimacy of her Christian name. He helped himself, and, fortified by her creative touch, held the waffle suspended upon his fork for a moment’s approving contemplation. “My!” he said, with the air of a connoisseur, “That’s about the finest thing in the way of waffle-flesh I ever did see. I’d recommend you to try one of this batch, Brother Seabrook,” he urged. “Well, I thought I was about done, but if you advise it, Brother Bixby--” Brother Seabrook hesitated. “I don’t just advise you to take one, I prescribe it for your health,” Mr. Bixby returned; at which every one laughed except Elizabeth, who was furious over his being allowed any personality. But for the other two Julie had opened the door and let him in, so that he emerged into their consciousness as some one to be taken into account. Brother Seabrook fell into talk with him about the war, and as to the possibility of his draft call, ignoring Elizabeth’s ruffled attempts to draw the conversation back to herself. The supper came to an end presently, and to Elizabeth’s chagrin, Mrs. Johnson accepted her perfunctory offer to help with the dishes.