to the front door--only a few yards down the short hall. The door
opened. A girl entered.

"That's Lorna," said Lane's mother. He grew aware that she bent a
curious gaze upon his face.

Lane rose to his feet with his heart pounding, and a strange sense of
expectancy. His little sister! Never during the endless months of
drudgery, strife and conflict, and agony, had he forgotten Lorna. Not
duty, nor patriotism, had forced him to enlist in the army before the
draft. It had been an ideal which he imagined he shared with the
millions of American boys who entered the service. Too deep ever to be
spoken of! The barbarous and simian Hun, with his black record against
Belgian, and French women, should never set foot on American soil.

In the lamplight Lane saw this sister throw coat and hat on the
banister, come down the hall and enter the kitchen. She seemed tall,
but her short skirt counteracted that effect. Her bobbed hair, curly
and rebellious, of a rich brown-red color, framed a pretty face Lane
surely remembered. But yet not the same! He had carried away memory of
a child's face and this was a woman's. It was bright, piquant, with
darkly glancing eyes, and vivid cheeks, and carmine lips.

"Oh, _hot dog_! if it isn't Dare!" she squealed, and with radiant look
she ran into his arms.

The moment, or moments, of that meeting between brother and sister
passed, leaving Lane conscious of hearty welcome and a sense of
unreality. He could not at once adjust his mental faculties to an
incomprehensible difference affecting everything.