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 briefly told, Henri wandered out among the men again. He was very happy. He had never thought to be so happy. He felt the touch on his sleeves of hard brown, not overclean hands, infinitely tender and caressing; and over there, as though she had never gone, was Sara Lee, slightly flushed and very radiant. And as though he also had never gone away, Henri pushed into the _salle à manger_ and stood before her smiling. "You bandage well, mademoiselle," he said gayly. "But I? I bandage better! See now, a turn here, and it is done! Does it hurt, Paul?" The man in the dressing chair squirmed and grinned sheepishly. "The iodine," he explained. "It is painful." "Then I shall ask you a question, and you will forget the iodine. Why is a dead German like the tail of a pig?" Paul failed. The room failed. Even Colonel Lilias confessed himself at fault.