The old man pushed him back with his feeble strength as he made to cross the threshold. His face had a tragic consternation too dreadful to behold. “If you cross the threshold,” he said, “while he still sleeps he will never, never awaken.” These words and the countenance of the old man convinced the man from the street that such was the truth. “I will return to-morrow and see if he sleeps still,” said the man, returning to the street. “This passes all understanding,” he muttered constantly as he took his way. XLVII On the following evening, when the man knocked again upon the shutter, and the door of the shop was opened by the old man, he was informed joyfully that the sleeper had awakened. And further, he was told that he had bathed, and had partaken of food, and that now in the little room he sat beside the hearth in the full enjoyment of his mind. “Do you remain here while I ask him if you may approach the threshold of his little room,” said the old man in a glad voice. The man from the street waited in joyfulness. In spite of his incredulity he seemed to know that the darkness of the night had passed. “He desires to see you,” said the old man as he returned. The man from the street, scarcely daring to breathe, followed the old man to the threshold of the inner room. Seated beside the hearth, which was ever brightly burning, was the frail figure of his friend, with the great pile of his writings clasped upon his knees. The lustre was extinguished from his worn and beautiful face; his eyes were no longer large and bright, his cheeks were sunken; yet all about him was a high and calm serenity, an inexpressible peace. “Faithful one,” said a voice whose strange quality was hardly more than a reminiscence of that which had once been familiar to the ears of the man from the street, “now that my task is done I will reward your constancy. You shall cross the threshold of my little room. Will you not embrace me, honest friend?” Speaking these words, the returned wayfarer stretched out his hands to his visitor. Thereupon the man from the street crossed the threshold of the little room and flung his arms about the form of him he had not hoped to clasp again. XLVIII The two friends sat long hours together, conversing of many things. William Jordan, now that his task was accomplished, had never seemed so accessible, so human, so near in sympathy and perception to those things that lay immediately about him. Jimmy Dodson, entranced by the new power and richness of his friend’s discourse, gave expression again and again to the delight that he felt.