The Colonel was a little older, possibly, but still straight and tall--
almost as tall as the son who walked beside him, carrying a violin case
under his arm. He wore the familiar slouch hat, the same loose overcoat,
and the same silvery goatee, trimmed most carefully. His blue eyes
lighted up warmly at the sight of the figure in the doorway.

"Welcome home!" cried Madame Francesca, stretching a hand toward each.
"Welcome home!"

Allison only smiled, taking the little hand in his strong young clasp,
but his father bent, hat in hand, to kiss the one she offered him.

"Oh," cried Madame, "I'm so glad to see you both. Come in!"

They entered their own hospitable house, where fires blazed and the
kettle sang. "Say," said Allison, "isn't this great! Why did we ever
leave it? Isn't it fine, Father?"

But "father" still had his eyes upon the dainty little lady who had
brought forth the miracle of home from a wilderness of dust and ashes.
He bent again over the small, white hand.

"A woman, a fire, and a singing kettle," he said. "All the dear,
familiar spirits of the house to welcome us home."