So she laughed away his objections, and he sat there with drawn, white face and looked about him, recognising the remnants of the old home, knowing for whose sake it was that they had come to rest in these narrow, gloomy confines. And, after all, it had been in vain. The sacrifices had brought no one happiness. He rose to go, and as he did so the door opened, and Hildegarde stood on the threshold. For a moment he hardly recognised her. She held herself upright as he had not seen her do for nearly three years; her cheeks were bright with colour and her eyes with the old light, so that it seemed as though the time of suffering had been blotted out of her life and she was once more his gay, untroubled playfellow. "Why, Hildegarde!" he cried delightedly. She came laughing towards him and gave him her hand with a cheery frankness. Neither by look nor tone did she betray that his presence had set her pulses galloping with the old pain and the old happiness. "Why, Wolff!" she repeated, mocking him. "Do you think I am a ghost?" "A phoenix, rather," he retorted gaily, for his joy was unfeigned. "I never dared to hope such good things of you. What has brought about the miracle?" She told him about the "cure" she had been through, still in the same easy, unconcerned voice, and only her mother noticed the restless movement of the long, thin hands. Perhaps it was that one sign of emotion which prevented her from urging Wolff to remain. Perhaps she knew, too, that Wolff was stifling in the narrow room. "You must come back soon, Wolff," Hildegarde said, as he bade her good-bye. "You have so much to tell us—about the war and our chances. But I will let you go to-day. You look so tired."