Mary, speaking with a sort of tense eagerness, said, "Yes."

So the Flippins sat down, and Mrs. Beaufort read in her pleasant voice
the letter from France.

Randy, lying on his back under the old oak, listened. Truxton gave a
joyous diary of the days--little details of the towns through which he
passed, of the houses where he was billeted, jokes of the men, of the
food they ate, of his hope of coming home.

"He seems very happy," said Mrs. Beaufort, as she finished.

"He is and he isn't----"

"You might make yourself a little clearer, Randolph," said the Judge.

"He is happy because France in summer is a pleasant sort of
Paradise--with the cabbages stuck up on the brown hillsides like
rosettes--and the minnows flashing in the little brooks and the old
mills turning--and he isn't happy--because he is homesick."

Randy raised himself on his elbow and smiled at his listening
audience--and as he smiled he was aware of a change in Mary Flippin.
The brooding look was gone. She was leaning forward, lips
parted--"Then you think that he is--homesick?"

"I don't _think_. I know. Why, over there, my bones actually ached
for Virginia."