Then, as if smitten with sudden fear, he who had all the courage of heroism, left her and went up the path to the doctor’s house. At the door, he turned before going in and watched Virginia as she went up the street. Her home was four blocks from her uncle’s. She also turned just an instant as he had, and each knew that, across that distance, over the heads of the excited throngs that were passing, the perfect song of a perfect romance was being sung in their hearts.

And each at the same moment was having the same thought that knit all of their new life up to that commanding, gracious, companionable, loving Person who, in some mysterious but real way, had been at the heart of their own thoughts of each other and always would be as long as love shall endure, which will be forever.

That night Mr. Maxwell’s house was besieged by representatives of the press. They clamored with increasing emphasis for admission. They all wanted to see this person calling himself Jesus and add to their already exciting accounts of the day’s happenings.

Henry Maxwell had refused admission to everyone. At nine o’clock that evening, the noise of the crowd and its demands became so insistent that Maxwell unlocked the front door and stepped out. The newspapermen gathered as close as they could get.

Mr. Maxwell pleaded with them to withdraw. “I can’t let in one without all. There are more than fifty of you. Besides, he is asleep.”

“Asleep?” asked a representative of a big New York paper. “Do you mean to say this person called Jesus has to sleep at this time of day?”

“He has to sleep just like any other person. Consider, gentlemen, he has had a most tiring day. He was exhausted when he reached my house after that mob. It would not be decent courtesy to disturb him.”

There was silence among the correspondents. Many of them were grown men, veterans in the newspaper world.

“But how are we going to get our stories?” asked a Chicago reporter.

“I don’t know, gentlemen. But I do know that I will not awaken him now for all Chicago, New York, and San Francisco.”

“Then give us a story yourself, Mr. Maxwell,” said another, one of the older men.

“You must excuse me. I have not given any interviews since he came. I do not believe it is his wish. In fact, I know it is not. I shall respect it.”

Another silence, broken by a man representing a prominent Washington paper who asked, “At least tell us this one thing, Mr. Maxwell: do you really believe this person is Jesus?”

Mr. Maxwell was silent a minute. The newspapermen crowded together, evidently very eager to get his answer. He spoke slowly and solemnly. “Gentlemen, I believe with all my soul and mind that the person asleep in my house tonight is Jesus Christ, the same person who lived on the earth before.”