She did not take her eyes from his face, nor did she move except to turn her head appealingly to the room as if she feared they were playing her another trick. He had reached her side and stood looking down at her. Again came the voice--a strong, clear voice, with a note of infinite tenderness through it: “How white your hair is, Annie; and your hand is so thin! Have I changed like this?” She leaned forward, scanning him eagerly. There was a little cry, then all her soul went out in the one word: “Harry!” She was inside the big coat now, his strong arms around her, her head hidden on his breast, only the tips of her toes on the floor. When he had kissed her again and again--and he did and before everybody--he crossed the room, picked up the ghostly candle, and smothered its flame. “I saw it from the road,” he laughed softly, “that’s why I couldn’t wait. But you’ll never have to light it again, my darling!” I saw them both a few years later. Everything in the way of fading and wrinkling had stopped so far as the Little Gray Lady was concerned. If there were any lines left in her forehead and around the corners of her eyes, I could not find them. Joy had planted a crop of dimples instead, and they had spread out, smoothing the care lines. Margaret even claimed that her hair was turning brown gold once more, but then Margaret was always her loyal slave, and believed everything her mistress wished. And now, if you don’t mind, dear reader, we will put everything back and shut the Little Gray Lady’s bureau drawer. End of Project Gutenberg’s The Little Gray Lady, by F. Hopkinson Smith