Her father was sitting at his desk.

At the sound of the opening door he turned and stared at the apparition
which confronted him. Mary had closed the door and stood with her back to
it, screwing up her courage for the last stage of her journey.

And in truth it must have taken courage, for there was something in old
Josiah's forbidding brow and solitary mien which would have chilled the
purpose of any child. It may have been this which suddenly brought the
tears to Mary's eyes, or it may have been that her womanly little breast
guessed the loneliness in her father's heart. Whatever it was, she
unsteadily crossed the room, her sight blurred but her plan as steadfast
as ever, and a moment later she was climbing on Josiah's knee, her arms
tight around his neck, sobbing as though it would shake her little frame
to pieces.

What passed between those two, partly in speech but chiefly in silence
with their wet cheeks pressed together, I need not tell you; but when
Ma'm Maynard came searching for her charge and stood quite open-mouthed
in the doorway, Josiah waved her away, his finger on his lip, and later
he carried Mary upstairs himself--and went back to his study without a
word, though blowing his nose in a key which wasn't without significance.

And nearly every night after that, when dinner was over, Mary made a
visit to old Josiah's study downstairs; and one Saturday morning when he
was leaving for the factory, he heard the front door open and shut behind
him and there stood Mary, her little straw bonnet held under her chin
with an elastic. In the most matter of fact way she slipped her fingers
into his hand. He hesitated, but woman-like she pulled him on. The next
minute they were walking down the drive together.