When he gets off the train Jock looks about him, from force of habit.  But no one has come to the station to meet him, and he looks as if that gave him neither surprise nor concern.  For a minute, perhaps, he will look around him, wondering, I think, that things are so much as they were, fixing in his mind the old familiar scenes that have brought him cheer so often in black, deadly nights in the trenches or in lonely billets out there in France.  And then, quietly, and as if he were indeed just home from some short trip, he shifts his pack, so that it lies comfortably across his back, and trudges off.  There would be cabs around the station, but it would not come into Jock’s mind to hail one of the drivers.  He has been used to using Shank’s Mare in France when he wanted to go anywhere, and so now he sets off quietly, with his long, swinging soldier’s stride.

As he walks along he is among scenes familiar to him since his boyhood.  You house, you barn, yon wooded rise against the sky are landmarks for him.  And he is pretty sure to meet old friends.  They nod to him, pleasantly, and with a smile, but there is no excitement, no strangeness, in their greeting.  For all the emotion they show, these folk to whom he has come back, as from the grave, they might have seen him yesterday, and the day before that, and the war never have been at all.  And Jock thinks nothing of it that they are not more excited about him.  You and I may be thinking of Jock as a hero, but that is not his idea about himself.  He is just a Tommy, home on leave from France—­one of a hundred thousand, maybe.  And if he thought at all about the way his home folk greeted him it would be just so—­that he could not expect them to be making a fuss about one soldier out of so many.  And, since he, Jock, is not much excited, not much worked up, because he is seeing these good folk again, he does not think it strange that they are not more excited about the sight of him.  It would be if they did make a fuss over him, and welcome him loudly, that he would think it strange!

And at last he comes to his own old home.  He will stop and look around a bit.  Maybe he has seen that old house a thousand times out there, tried to remember every line and corner of it.  And maybe, as he looks down the quiet village street, he is thinking of how different France was.  And, deep down in his heart, Jock is glad that everything is as it was, and that nothing has been changed.  He could not tell you why; he could not put his feeling into words.  But it is there, deep down, and the truer and the keener because it is so deep.  Ah, Jock may take it quietly, and there may be no way for him to show his heart, but he is glad to be home!