She tried to understand what it meant. Then even this would cease to be in the world. She had known she ought to stop following the picture around, she had even told herself this would be the last time she would come to see it--but to feel it wouldn't any longer be there to be seen--that even this glimpse of Howie would go out--go out as life goes out--scrap-heap! She sat up straight and cleared her throat. She would have to leave. She must get air. But she looked to see where they were. Not far now. She might miss Howie! With both hands she took hold of the sides of the seat. She was _not_ going to fall forward! _Not_ suffocating. Not until after she had seen him. _Now._ The detective has left the hotel--he is walking along the street. He comes to the cigar-store door, and there steps in to watch. And there comes the dog! Then it was not going to be cut out tonight! Along comes the little dog--pawing at his muzzle. He stops in distress in front of the cigar-store. People pass and pay no attention to the dog--there on the sidewalk. And then--in the darkened theater her hands go out, for the door has opened--and she sees her husband! _Howie._ _There._ Moving as he always moved! She fights back the tears that would blur him. That dear familiar way he moves! It is almost as if she could step up and meet him, and they could walk away together. He starts to go the other way. Then he sees the dog. He goes up to him; he is speaking to him, wanting to know what is the matter. She can fairly hear the warmth and kindness of his voice as he speaks to the little dog. He feels of the muzzle--finds it too tight; he lets it out a notch. _Dear_ Howie. Of _course_ he would do that. No one else had cared, but he would care. Then he speaks to the dog--pats him--tells him he is all right now. Then Howie turns away. But the dog thinks he will go with this nice person! Howie laughs and tells him he can't come. A little girl has come across the street. Howie tells her to keep the dog from following him. Then again he turns to go. But just before he passes from sight the child calls something to him, and he looks back over his shoulder and smiles. She sees again the smile that has been the heart of her life. Then he passes from sight. And he always leaves friends behind him--just as he always did leave friends behind him. There will be little murmurs of approval; sometimes there is applause. Tonight a woman near Laura said, "Say, I bet that's an awful nice fellow." She never left her seat at once, as if moving would break a spell. For a little while after she had seen it, his smile would stay with her. Then it would fade, as things fade in the motion pictures. Somehow she didn't really _have_ it. That was why she had to keep coming--constantly reaching out for something that was not hers to keep.