It was his Kate that lay in his grasp--close--tightly pressed--her heart beating against his, her warm, throbbing body next his own, her heart swept of every doubt and care, all her will gone.
As she grew quiet she stretched up her hand, touching his cheek as if to reassure herself that it was really her lover.

Yes! It was Harry--HER Harry--Harry who was dead and is alive again--to whom she had stripped her soul naked--and who still trusted and loved her.
A little later she loosened herself from his embrace and taking his face in her small, white hands looked long and earnestly into his eyes, smoothing back the hair from his brow as she used to do; kissing him on the forehead, on each eyelid, and then on the mouth--one of their old-time caresses.

Still remembering the old days, she threw back his coat and let her hands wander over his full-corded throat and chest and arms.

How big and strong he had become! and how handsome he had grown--the boy merged into the man.

And that other something! (and another and stronger thrill shot through her)--that other something which seemed to flow out of him;--that dominating force that betokened leadership, compelling her to follow--not the imperiousness of his father, brooking no opposition no matter at what cost, but the leadership of experience, courage, and self-reliance.
With this the sense of possession swept over her.