Jean of to-day?"

"There is only one Jean for me--yesterday, today and forever."

* * * * * *

She stood a little away from him. "Derry, I've been thinking and
thinking--"

He put a finger under her chin and turned her face up to him. "What
have you been thinking, Jean-Joan?"

"That you must go--and I will take care of your father."

"You?"

"Yes. Why not, Derry?"

"I won't have you sacrificed."

"But you want me to be brave."

"Yes. But not burdened. I won't have it, my dear."

"But--you promised your mother. I am sure she would be glad to let me
keep your promise."

She was brave now. Braver than he knew.

"I can't see it," he said, fiercely. "I can see myself leaving you
with Emily, in your own house--to live your own life. But not to sit
in Dad's room, day after day, sacrificing your youth as I sacrificed my
childhood and boyhood--my manhood--. I am over thirty, Jean, and I
have always been treated like a boy. It isn't right, Jean; our lives
are our own, not his."

"It is right. Nobody's life seems to be his own in these days. And
you must go--and I can't leave him. He is so old, and helpless, Derry,
like the poor pussy-cat over there in France. His eyes are like
that--hungry, and they beg--. And oh, Derry, I mustn't be like Polly
Ann, on a pink cushion--."

She tried to laugh and broke down. He caught her up in his arms.
Light as thistledown, young and lovely!

She sobbed on his heart, but she held to her high resolve. He must
go--and she would stay. And at last he gave in.

He had loved her dearly, but he had not looked for this, that she would
give herself to hardness for the sake of another. For the first time
he saw in his little wife something of the heroic quality which had
seemed to set his mother apart and above, as it were, all other women.

BOOK THREE

The Bugle Calls

The wooden trumpeters that were carved on the door blew with all their
might, so that their cheeks were much larger than before. Yes, they
blew "Trutter-a-trutt--trutter-a-trutt--" . . .

CHAPTER XXIII

THE EMPTY HOUSE

Jean's world was no longer wonderful--not in the sense that it had once
been, with all the glamour of girlish dreams and of youthful visions.

She had never thought of life as a thing like this in the days when she
had danced down to the confectioner's, intent on good times.

But now, with her father away, with Derry away, with