They did not part for half an hour. When they did Latimer knew a great deal of the past. He knew the story of the child's up-growing, with the sun rising from behind one mountain and setting behind another; he seemed to know the people who had loved and been familiar with her throughout her childish and girlish years; he knew of the fanciful name given her in infancy, and of the more fanciful one her primitive friends and playmates had adopted. He knew the story of Rupert, and guessed vaguely at the far past in which Delia Vanuxem had lived and died. "Thank God I saw you that day!" he said. "Thank God I went to you that night!" And they grasped hands again and went their separate ways. * * * * * Latimer went home and told Baird of the meeting and of the appointment for the following day. "I felt that you would like to see the man," he said. "He is the finest, simple being in the world. Soul and body are on a like scale." "You were right in thinking I should like to see him," answered Baird. "I have thought of him often." He regarded his friend with some anxiety. "To meet her face to face will be a strange thing," he added. "Do you think you can hide what you must feel? It will not be easy--even for me." "It will not be easy for either of us--if she looks at us with Margery's eyes. You will know them. Margery was happy, too, when the picture you have seen was made." That--to see her stand before them in her youth and beauty, all unknowing--would be a strange thing, was the thought in the mind of each as they walked through the streets together, the next evening. The flare of an occasional street-lamp falling on Latimer's face revealed all its story to his companion, though it might not have so revealed itself to another. Baird himself was wondering how they should each bear themselves throughout the meeting. She would be so wholly unconscious--this girl who had always been happy and knew nothing of the past. To her they would be but a middle-aged popular lecturer and his unattractive-looking friend--while each to himself was a man concealing from her a secret. They must eliminate it from their looks, their voices, their air. They must be frank and courteous and conventional. Baird turned it all over in his mind. When they reached the house the second-story windows were lighted as if to welcome them. Matt opened the door for them, attired in his best and bowing low. To receive such guests he felt to be an important social event, which seemed to increase the chances of the claim and point to a future when distinguished visitors would throng to a much more imposing front door. He announced, with an air of state, that his master and young mistress were "receivin'," and took ceremonious charge of the callers. He had brushed his threadbare coat and polished each brass button singly until it shone. An African imagination aided him to feel the dignity of hospitality.