citement,
no strangeness, in their greeting. For all the emotion they show,
these folk to whom he has come back, as from the grave, they might
have seen him yesterday, and the day before that, and the war never
have been at all. And Jock thinks nothing of it that they are not
more excited about him. You and I may be thinking of Jock as a hero,
but that is not his idea about himself. He is just a Tommy, home on
leave from France--one of a hundred thousand, maybe. And if he
thought at all about the way his home folk greeted him it would be
just so--that he could not expect them to be making a fuss about one
soldier out of so many. And, since he, Jock, is not much excited, not
much worked up, because he is seeing these good folk again, he does
not think it strange that they are not more excited about the sight
of him. It would be if they did make a fuss over him, and welcome him
loudly, that he would think it strange!

And at last he comes to his own old home. He will stop and look
around a bit. Maybe he has seen that old house a thousand times out
there, tried to remember every line and corner of it. And maybe, as
he looks down the quiet village street, he is thinking of how
different France was. And, deep down in his heart, Jock is glad that
everything is as it was, and that nothing has been changed. He could
not tell you why; he could not put his feeling into words. But it is
there, deep down, and the truer and the keener because it is so deep.
Ah, Jock may take it quietly, and there may be no way for him to show
his heart, but he is glad to be home!

And at his gate will come, as a rule, Jock's first real greeting. A
dog, grown old since his departure, will come out, wagging his tail,
and licking the soldier's hand. And Jock will lean down, and give his
old dog a pat. If the dog had not come he would have been surprised
and disappointed. And so, glad with every fibre of his being, Jock
goes in, and finds father and mother and sisters within. They look up
at his coming, and their happiness shines for a moment in their eyes.
But they are not the sort of people to show their emotions or make a
fuss. Mother and girls will rise and kiss him, and begin to take his
gear, and his father will shake him by the hand.

"Well," the father will ask, "how are you getting along, lad?"

And--"All right," he will answer. That is the British soldier's
answer to that question, always and everywhere.

Then he sits down, happy and at