“To you from falling hands we throw the torch—­be yours to hold it high—­,” the little man who had measured cloth behind a counter, the boy who had sold papers on the streets, the bank clerk who had bent over his books, the stenographer who had been bound to the wheel of everlasting dictation, were lighted by the radiance of that vision, “to hold it high—.”

“Gee, I never used to think,” said Tommy Tracy, “that I might have a chance to do a stunt like that.”

“Like what?” Derry asked.

Tommy found it a thing rather hard to express.  “Well, when you’ve been just a common sort of chap, to die—­for the other fellow—­”

So men’s bodies grew and their muscles hardened.  But their souls grew, too, expanding to the breadth and height of the things which were waiting for them to do across the sea.

And one morning Derry was granted a furlough, and started home.  He sent no word ahead of him.  He wanted to come upon them unawares.  To catch the light that would be on Jean’s face when she looked up and saw him.

There was rain and more rain when at last he arrived in Washington.  The trees as his taxi traversed the wide avenues showed clear green, melting into vistas of amethyst and gray.  The parks as he passed were starred with the bright yellow and pinks of flowering shrubs.  Washington, in spite of the rain, was as lovely as a woman whose color blooms behind a veil.

He came into the great house unannounced, having his key with him.  The General was out for a ride, the children with him, Margaret and Emily and Jean away, the servants in the back of the house.

Derry, going up the stairs, two steps at a time, stopped on the landing with head uncovered to greet his mother.

Oh, lovely painted lady, is this the little white-faced lad you loved, the big bronzed man, fresh from hardships, strong in the sense of the thing he has to do?

No promise made to you could hold him now.  He has weighed your small demands is the balance with the world’s great need.

He did not tarry long.  Straight as an eagle to its mate, he swept through the hall and knocked at the door of Jean’s room.  There was no response.  He knocked again, turned the handle, entered, and found the room empty.  The tin soldier on the shelf shouted, “Welcome, welcome—­comrade,” but Derry had no ears to hear.  Everywhere were signs of Jean; her fat memory book open on her desk, the ivory and gold appointments of her dressing table, her pink slippers, her prayer book—­his own picture with flowers in front of it as before a shrine.

“My dear, my darling,” his heart said when he saw that.  What, after all, was he that she should worship him?

Impatient, he rang for Bronson, and the old man came—­bewildered, hurried, joyful.  “It’s a great surprise, sir, but it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, Bronson.  Where’s Miss Jean?”