And in the year which had passed, life, with tender rather than defacing lines, had put upon her face the touch of sorrow. Europe meant more to her than an Old World civilisation, more than tradition, beauty or art. It even meant more than the place where she had spent those first dear months of her love. It meant to her the place where she had hoped with woman's dearest hope, and where she had given up the child which should have been hers. Her tenderest, deepest thoughts were not of the wonders and beauties she had seen; they were of the dreams within, of the holy happiness of first knowledge, and then the grief in giving up the much desired, which she had known only in anticipation. The most cherished memories of their love were memories of those days in which he had comforted her, of the tenderness with which he had consoled, the strength with which he had upheld. Those hours had reached far into her soul, deepening it, giving her, as if in compensation, new channels for love, new understanding of those innermost things of life. But in those first days, even while the soul of the woman was deepening, the bruised heart was as the heart of a child. It was as a child she had been to him in those days, and he had comforted her as one would comfort an idolised child, whose hurt one strove to take wholly unto one's self. The memory of those hours knit them together as no other thing could have done. Looking down at her face now he saw that look he had come to know--that far-away, frightened, wistful look. Very gently he laid his hand upon her knee. "I am going to make you so happy. Life is going to be so beautiful," he said. She smiled at him, but the tears were in it. "Yes, Karl--I know. But now that we are coming home--together--alone, doesn't it seem--" He turned away. The man had suffered too. "And we are leaving it over there--over there, alone--away from us--the life that should have been--" With that he turned resolutely back to her. "Ernestine, isn't there another way to look at it? It came of our love, and now, dear, it has gone back into our love. It isn't something apart from us,--something gone. We have taken it back unto ourselves. It is here with us. The greater love we have--that is it, dear." The flame of understanding leaped quickly to her eyes. "Oh, I like that Karl," she whispered. "I like that better than anything you ever said." She turned then and looked from the window. Across the fields, over near the horizon, she could see a little house. The smoke was curling from the chimney. The autumn twilight had come on and they had lighted the lamp. A bit of home! The tears came to her eyes--tears of tender anticipation. She too was to make a home. And was it not good to think that smoke was coming from many chimneys and many lamps were being lighted? Was it not good to feel that the dear world was full of homes?