I walked nervously to the side of the house and glanced in at
the deep bow-window; a shadow crossed the room: it was Ellen's shadow,
and unchanged, thank God! I knew she would not change, for she was one
whom time wearied not and fear fretted not, but to whom all things
were alike welcome, inasmuch as they came from the Hand that can work
no ill.
I returned to the study-door and rapped again, and then grew suddenly
much excited: I almost wished I had not summoned her so soon, but
already I heard her step upon the carpet, her hand on the latch and
the shutters swung apart. I strove to calm myself and ask carelessly
if she were at home, when I thought I saw a difference in the form and
face before me: they were so like Ellen's, but not hers. Had it been
in my power to do so, I would have turned at that moment and gone out
into the world without questioning any one: I would gladly have
avoided any revelation of ill that might have befallen that
household, and gone on as before, thinking it was well with them. But
it was too late: at the same instant we recognized one another.
"Is it Emma?" I asked fearfully.
"You are not--"
Ah, yes, it was he who had promised all these years to come, and had
come at last!
Then she added, "You have come too late: Ellen left us one week ago."
I knew what that meant: it was the leaving that takes all along with
it, and there remains nothing but a memory instead.
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