"Mother, you're right," he said, gravely. "I've been away so--long. But I'm back home now. I'll soon get on to things. And I'll help you. I'll take Lorna in hand. I'll relieve you of a whole lot." "You were always a good boy, Daren, to me and Lorna," murmured Mrs. Lane, almost in tears. "It's cheered me to get you home, yet.... Oh, if you were well and strong!" "Never mind, mother. I'll get better," he replied, rising to take up his bag. "I guess now I'd better go to bed. I'm just about all in.... Wonder how Blair and Red are." His mother followed him up the narrow stairway, talking, trying to pretend she did not see his dragging steps, his clutch on the banisters. "Your room's just as you left it," she said, opening the door. Then on the threshold she kissed him. "My son, I thank God you have come home alive. You give me hope in--in spite of all.... If you need me, call. Good night." Lane was alone in the little room that had lived in waking and dreaming thought. Except to appear strangely smaller, it had not changed. His bed and desk--the old bureau--the few pictures--the bookcase he had built himself--these were identical with images in his memory. A sweet and wonderful emotion of peace pervaded his soul--fulfilment at last of the soldier's endless longing for home, bed, quiet, rest. "If I have to die--I can do it _now_ without hate of all around me," he whispered, in the passion of his spirit. But as he sat upon his bed, trying with shaking and clumsy hands to undress himself, that exalted mood flashed by. Some of the dearest memories of his life were associated with this little room. Here he had dreamed; here he had read and studied; here he had fought out some of the poignant battles of youth. So much of life seemed behind him. At last he got undressed, and extinguishing the light, he crawled into bed.