blazed in the dark eyes, the fire of love.

"Mother!" he cried. "Don't you know me?"

The Princess gave a cry, and clasped her son in a passionate embrace.

"Ignace!" she cried; and "Ignace!" over and over, while she patted him
and felt of him as though to assure herself that it was not a dream.

"Where is your father, Ignace?" she whispered finally, as a dreadful
thought pierced her.

"I come from him," said the young man wearily. "He is wounded, mother,
and needs you, but be brave, because he will live. Let me sit while I
tell you."

He sank wearily into a chair, still clinging to the hand of the
Princess. He paid no attention to the strangers, but closed his eyes.

"I thought I would never see you again, dear ones," he said huskily.
"I simply can't tell you now what we have been through. All I can say
is that in the final encounter, as the enemy passed Lodz, my dear
father was desperately wounded. I missed him, and searched for him.
When I found him he was unconscious. Mother, I thought he was dead.
But he lived, and under cover of darkness we carried him to the house
of our Aunt Francoise. She has turned it into a hospital, mother, and
all the forty rooms are filled with soldiers. Well, father had good
care then, for all the rush Aunt Francoise had him taken to the hidden
chapel in the east wall, and it is quiet and safe. But you must come
and care for him, mother, for there are not enough nurses by half, and