XXIV

It was early in June when at last the lights went down behind the back
drop and came up in front, to show Sara Lee knitting again, though not
by the fire. The amazing interlude was over.

Over, except in Sara Lee's heart. The voyage had been a nightmare. She
had been ill for one thing--a combination of seasickness and
heartsickness. She had allowed Henri to come to England with her, and
the Germans had broken through. All the good she had done--and she had
helped--was nothing to this mischief she had wrought.

It had been a small raid. She gathered that from the papers on board.
But that was not the vital thing. What mattered was that she had let a
man forget his duty to his country in his solicitude for her.

But as the days went on the excitement of her return dulled the edge of
her misery somewhat. The thing was done. She could do only one thing
to help. She would never go back, never again bring trouble and
suffering where she had meant only to bring aid and comfort.

She had a faint hope that Harvey would meet her at the pier. She needed
comforting and soothing, and perhaps a bit of praise. She was so very
tired; depressed, too, if the truth be known. She needed a hand to lead
her back to her old place on the stage, and kind faces to make her forget
that she had ever gone away.

Because that was what she had to do. She must forget Henri and the
little house on the road to the poplar trees; and most of all, she must
forget that because of her Henri had let the Germans through.

But Harvey did not meet her. There was a telegram saying he would meet
her train if she wired when she was leaving--an exultant message
breathing forgiveness and signed "with much love." She flushed when she
read it.

Of course he could not meet her in New York. This was not the Continent
in wartime, where convention had died of a great necessity. And he was
not angry, after all. A great wave of relief swept over her. But it
was odd how helpless she felt. Since her arrival in England months
before there had always been Henri to look after things for her. It was
incredible to recall how little she had done for herself.

Was she glad to be back? She did not ask herself. It was as though the
voyage had automatically detached her from that other Sara Lee of the
little house. That was behind her, a dream--a mirage--or a memory.
Here, a trifle confused by the bustle, was once again the Sara Lee who
had knitted for Anna, a