He could see the end as Molly cast an imploring look around her and prepared to depart. Ethelind, who was already in street clothes, gave all the signs of going with her. Over them both Lester threw the protection of his love, which apparently gave them nerve. Neither of them flinched; but it was in Molly that the real valor shone. She was both quiet and firm as she took her few steps toward the door, Ethelind clinging to her arm. But at the door there was a ring, and on the porch outside there stood a boy with a telegram in his hand. "Charles E. Lester live here?" Ethelind seized the envelope, while with feverish fingers Cora signed for it. The father took it in his hands and held it helplessly. The mother uttered one great cry. "Open it!" He opened it--read it--and let it flutter to the floor. Cora snatched it up; but she, too, dropped it after a hurried glance. She stood as if turned to stone. The mother took it--sat down deliberately--read it carefully--read it again--read it again--and folding it, slipped it into the bosom of her gown. Molly and Ethelind had not waited. They had not needed to hear the news. Rather they were eager to run away. It was Molly, however, who pressed onward, dragging the other with her--out to the porch--down the steps--on to the driveway. The three in the hallway remained as if paralyzed, without tears, without words, seemingly without thoughts. The mother came first to the possession of her faculties. "Stop her," she cried, in a deep, tragic voice a little like a man's. "Stop her. Bring her back." She struggled to her feet, hurrying toward the door. "She's my dead son's wife. He spoke to her. He's not dead. He's alive. If he wasn't alive he couldn't have come to her. Stop her. Call her back. She's my child. Nothing shall take her away from me." Lester saw the two girls pause, while Ethelind whispered: "Go back. She's calling you." Slowly Molly turned round. Slowly she mounted the steps of the veranda. The vision faded out as Lester saw his mother's arms go round the neck of his young wife and draw her close. But it faded out in radiance. It also faded out in confidence. He was not only at peace, he was at peace with the certainty of a vast readjustment. It was readjustment in himself first of all--the adaptation of the "fan" at ball-games, and of the broker of The Street, to the eternities of which he could just discern the beginnings. Then it would be the readjustment of his family--to each other--to Molly--to their memory of him. A new kind of tenderness would settle down among them with a new and farther outlook. It would be the readjustment, too, of his country--to a new world-position--to a wider world responsibility. In the ending of enmities it would play a ruling part.