hat sounded so
like the wind in the trees or water over the pebbles of a brook, paused
in her work and lifted her head. The rhythm of marching feet came
through the wooden shutters. The very building seemed to vibrate with
it. And there was a growling sound with it that soon she knew to be the
deep voices of singing men.

She went to the door and stood there, looking down the street. Behind
her was the warm glow of the lamp, all the snug invitation of the little
house.

A group of soldiers had paused in front of the doorway, and from them
one emerged--tall, white, infinitely weary--and looked up at her with
unbelieving eyes.

After all, there are no words for such meetings. Henri took her hand,
still with that sense of unreality, and bent over it. And Sara Lee
touched his head as he stooped, because she had called for so long, and
only now he had come.

"So you have come back!" she said in what she hoped was a composed
tone--because a great many people were listening. He raised his head
and looked at her.

"It is you who have come back, mademoiselle."

* * * * *

There was gayety in the little house that night. Every candle was
lighted. They were stuck in rows on mantel-shelves. They blazed--and
melted into strange arcs--above the kitchen stove. There were
cigarettes for everybody, and food; and a dry uniform, rather small, for
Henri. Marie wept over her soup, and ran every few moments to the door
to see if he was still there. She had kissed him on both cheeks when
he came in, and showed signs, every now and then, of doing it again.

Sara Lee did her bandaging as usual, but with shining eyes. And soon
after Henri's arrival a dispatch rider set off post haste with certain
papers and maps, hurriedly written and drawn. Henri had not only
returned, he had brought back information of great value to all the
Allied armies.

So Sara Lee bandaged, and in the little room across the way, where no
longer Harvey's photograph sat on the mantel, Henri told his story to
the officers--of his imprisonment in the German prison at Crefeld; of
his finding Jean there, weeks later when he was convalescing from
typhoid; of their escape and long wandering; of Jean's getting into
Holland, whence he would return by way of England. Of his own business,
of what he had done behind the lines after Jean had gone, he said
nothing. But his listeners knew and understood.

But his dispatches off, his story brie