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.