d.

All of her bright hair was hidden, her eyes were on the compresses that
she was counting. It seemed to him that there was a sharpened look on
the little face.

He had not expected this. He had felt that he would find her glowing
as she had been on that first night when he had followed his father
through the rain--his dream had been of crinkled copper hair, of silver
and rose, of youth and laughter and lightness--.

Her letters had been like that--gay, sparkling--there had been times
when they had seemed almost too exuberant, times when he had wondered
if she had really waked to the seriousness of the great struggle, and
the part he was to play in it.

Yet now he saw signs of suffering. He opened the door. "Jean," he
cried.

With the blood all drained from her face, she stared at him as if she
saw a specter--"Derry," she whispered.

With his strong arms, he lifted her over the counter. "Jean-Joan,
Jean-Joan--"

When at last she released herself, it was to laugh through her tears.
"Derry, pull down the shades; what will people think?"

He cared little what people would think. And, anyway, very few people
were passing at that late hour in the rain. But he pulled them down,
and when he came back, he held her off at arm's length. "What have you
been doing to yourself, dearest? You are a feather-weight."

"Well, I've been working."

"How does it happen that you are here alone?"

"Emily had to go down to order supplies, and Margaret went to a Liberty
Loan meeting. I often stay like this to count and tie."

"Don't you get dreadfully tired?"

"Yes. But I think I like to get tired. It keeps me from thinking too
much."

He drew her to him. "Take off your veil," he said, almost roughly. "I
want to see your hair."

Divested of her headcovering, she was more like herself, but even then
he was not content. He loosed a hairpin here and there and ran his
fingers through the crinkled gold. "If you knew how I've dreamed of
it, Jean-Joan."

But he had not dreamed of the dearness of the little face. "My
darling, you have been pining, and I didn't know it."

"Well, didn't you like my smiling letters?"

"So that was it? You've been trying to cheer me up, and letting
yourself get like this."

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Didn't you know that I'd want to be worried with anything that
pertained to you? What's a husband for, dearest, if you can't tell him
your troubles?"

"Yes, but a soldier