Mother wrote and told me you had found out.

And she told me what you'd been to her.

My own little girl!" They stopped a minute then.
And now I see them crossing the field.

Bobbie goes into the house, trying to keep her eyes from speaking before her lips have found the right words to "tell Mother quite quietly" that the sorrow and the struggle and the parting are over and done, and that Father has come home.
I see Father walking in the garden, waiting--waiting.

He is looking at the flowers, and each flower is a miracle to eyes that all these months of Spring and Summer have seen only flagstones and gravel and a little grudging grass.