The rhythm of marching feet came
through the wooden shutters. The very building seemed to vibrate with
it. And there was a growling sound with it that soon she knew to be the
deep voices of singing men.
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.
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