He faltered at the door and then crossed the room with a poise that reminded her of the father who to the end had never shown evidence of any physical weakness in his bearing. In fact in look and carriage, even in the spotless freshness of his dress which was a characteristic of the elder, he appeared like his father. She could hardly believe. She sat as silent as though this were some illusion. There was color in the ordinarily yellow cheeks, there was life in the usually dull eyes, though the spasmodic twitching testified to nerves still unsteady. When he held out his trembling hand, she took it as though in a trance. She saw that it was difficult for him to speak. It was impossible for her. The suggested metamorphosis was too striking. He broke the strained, glad silence. "Elaine, can you forget?" She uttered his name but could go no further. "I can't apologize," he stammered, "it's too ghastly. But if we could start fresh from to-day, if you could wait a little before judging, and watch. Perhaps then--" She drew him quickly towards her. "Can I believe what I see?" she asked. "I--I don't know what you see," he answered unsteadily. "I see your father. I see the man who was the only father I myself knew." He bent over her. He kissed her forehead. "Dear Elaine," he said hoarsely, "you see a man who is going to be a better man to you." "To yourself, Ben,--be better to yourself! Are you going to be that?" "That is the way,--by being a man to you and to the others." "The others?" "The unseen others. You must get Donaldson to tell you about the others." She grasped his wrist with both her hands, looking up at him intently. Where was the change? A photograph would not have shown all the change. Yet it was there. Nor was this a temporal reformation based upon cowardly remorse. It showed too calm, too big an impulse for that. It was so sincere, so deep, that it did not need words to express it. "I believe you, Ben," she said, "I believe you with all my heart and soul." In the words he realized the divine that is in all women, the eagerness that is Christ-like in its eternal hunger to seize upon the good in man. He stooped again and with religious reverence kissed the white space above her eyes. "We 'll not talk about it much, shall we?" he said. "I want you to believe only as I go on from day to day. I 've some big plans that I thought up on the way home. Some day we 'll talk those over, but not now. Donaldson is downstairs." He saw the color sweep her face. It suggested to him something that he had not yet suspected. It came to him like a new revelation of sunlight. He smiled. It was the smile of the father which she had so long missed, the smile that always greeted her when his sad heart was fullest of hope and gladness. It was so he used to smile when at twilight he stood at her side, his long thin arm over her shoulder and talked of Ben with a new hope born of his own victory.