"Phil--Phil!" Kirk was saying then. "Oh, aren't you glad to see me at _all_? It's me--oh, _Phil_!"
His eager hands sought her face, to be sure it was she, so strange and quiet.
"Just a minute, lamb," she heard Ken say, with a hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Phil doesn't feel quite right."
Then warm, delicious life rushed over her, and she could move again and fling her trembling arms around Kirk. She and Ken and the Maestro all managed to embrace Kirk at once, so that they embraced each other, too. And Ken was not ashamed of his tears, nor was the Maestro.
The ex-mate of the _Celestine_ stood discreetly on the terrace, whistling to himself. But he was not whistling the song about his hat. No, it was a little plaintive air, dimly familiar, Ken thought. Where had he heard it before? And why was the Maestro straightening with a stricken face, from Kirk?
[Illustration: "Phil--Phil!" Kirk was saying then.]
"Roses in the moonlight, To-night all thine."
That was the tune, to be sure! The Maestro was on his feet. He walked slowly to the open French window.
"What--what right have you to come here whistling--_that_?" he breathed. He wheeled suddenly on Kirk. "Did you sing it to him?" he demanded. "Is this--_what_ is this?"
"I didn't," said Kirk, quickly; "Oh, I didn't."
The air seemed tense, burdened with something that hovered there in the stillness of the waiting garden.
"I can think of no one," said the stranger, slowly, "who has a better right to whistle it here."
The Maestro grasped the man's arm fiercely.
"Turn around!" he said. "What do you mean? What _can_ you mean--unless--" He flung his arm suddenly before his eyes, as he met the other's gaze.
"Martin!" he said, in a voice so low that no one but Kirk heard it. And they stood there, quite still in the pale September sunset--the Maestro with his arm across his eyes; the mate of the _Celestine_ with his hands clasped behind him and his lips still shaping the tune of the song his father had made for him.
Ken, within the room, swung Kirk into his arms.
"The library door's open," he whispered to Felicia. "_Cut_--as fast as ever you can!"
The little living-room of Applegate Farm bloomed once more into firelit warmth. It seemed almost to hold forth, kindly welcoming arms to its children, together again.
