Some little distance down the street she came upon the door of another stairway which bore a number of lawyers’ signs. The windows all up the front of this building were lighted, and without further examination she ascended the first flight of stairs. The landing was almost completely dark, but an obscured gleam came from the dusty transoms over three or four doors close about her. She knocked on one of these at random, and in response to an inarticulate vocal sound from within, opened the door and entered. It was a square, medium-sized room in which she found herself, with a long, paper-littered table in the centre, and tall columns of light leather-covered books rising along the walls. At the opposite end of the chamber a man sat at a desk, his back turned to her, his elbows on the desk, and his head in his hands. The shaded light in front of him made a mellow golden fringe around the outline of his hair. A sudden bewildering tumult burst forth in the girl’s breast as she looked at this figure. Then, as suddenly, the recurring mental echoes of the voice which had bidden her enter rose above this tumult and stilled it. A gentle and comforting warmth stole through her veins. This was Horace Boyce who sat there before her--and she did not hate him! During that instant in which she stood by the door, a whole flood of self-illumination flashed its rays into every recess of her mind. This, then, was the strange, formless opposing impulse which had warred with the other in her heart for this last miserable fortnight, and dragged her nearly to distraction. She recognized it now, and welcomed it. The bringing home of her boy had revived for her, by occult and subtle processes, the old romance in which his father had been framed, as might a hero be by sunlit clouds. She hugged the thought to her heart, and stood looking at’ him motionless and mute. “Well, who is it? What is wanted?” he called out, querulously, without changing his posture. Jessica moved slowly toward him. It was as if a magic voice drew her forward in a dream--herself all rapt and dumb. Irritably impressed by the continued silence, Horace lifted his head, and swung abruptly around in his chair. His own shadow obscured the features of his visitor. He saw only that it was a lady, and rose hesitatingly to his feet. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, “I was busy with my thoughts, and did not know who it was.” “Do you know now?” Jessica heard herself ask, as in a trance. The balmy warmth in her own heart told her that she was smiling. Horace took a step or two obliquely forward, so that the light fell on her face. He peered with a confounded gaze at her for a moment, then let his arms fall limp at his sides. “In the name of the dev--” he began, confusedly, and then bit the word short, and stared at her again. “Is it really you?” he asked at last, reassured in part by her smile.