“I don’t know. I suppose he is on leave. He heads straight for this place the minute he gets a furlough, and all because I was good to him that first day when he came in with a broken head. The war is over, really?” “Practically, though, confound it, my regiment wasn’t in the front line when they sent over the last shot. I’m here instead of there.” “On leave?” “On my way from Paris, official business.” “But you will be coming back this way again soon?” “I hope so.” “And when do you return home?” “That’s something no fellow can find out. I may hang around for months, may go any time. I must run in for a brief moment to see your mother and then I’m off.” After his one day of proud celebration when he enjoyed to the fullest his position as central attraction, Gus Fitchett faded out of sight, and was seen no more in those parts, though one day, weeks later, came a postcard from Boulogne, a gay and giddy Christmas card bearing in crooked and weird handwriting Lucie’s name. “Mery Crismuss and good-by Mis Lucy. I salin fo home,” it read. Meanwhile those who lived at S---- watched and waited for news of returning prisoners. By the end of November a million and a half had been released and were finding their way back to France. It was not to be supposed that the friends of Captain Du Bois would overlook him, or that they would fail to see, providing he were still alive, that he reached home safely. The Y.M.C.A., the Salvation Army, the Knights of Columbus, helped the army in their task of feeding and directing these returned prisoners. Many of them were in a pitiable condition; others were not in so bad a state as it was feared they would be. All were underfed, many were ill. It was just before Christmas. The little house of the Du Bois’s was warm and snug, cold though it was outside. Madame Du Bois and Lucie occupied one of the upstairs rooms; Paulette and Odette the other. The fowls, the rabbits, the goat were safely and comfortably housed in the shed. From the kitchen issued savory odors. Mousse, in his usual Sybaritic way, sought out the warmest spot near the stove there. In the next room Madame Du Bois was sewing. She had regained some of her charming air of distinction. Her soft hair, though showing streaks of gray, was shining and prettily arranged. Her dress, simple enough, sat well upon her graceful figure. Lucie, too, since her mother’s return had more the appearance of one delicately bred. Pom Pom was curled up at her feet. There was silver on the table and a bit of green in a tall vase gave an attempt at Christmas decoration. The room held a few chairs, a table, a set of shelves, a divan cot covered with a homespun quilt, found back in the country where Miss Lowndes had taken Madame Du Bois and Lucie one day on a foraging expedition. On the same day they had been able to get some crude mats for the floor, which added to the room’s look of comfort.