“At Miss Emily’s shop, sir.”

“As late as this?”

“Sometimes later.  She tries to get home in time for dinner.”

“Where’s Dad?”

“Driving with the children, and the ladies are out on war work.”

A year ago women had played bridge at this hour in the afternoon, but there was no playing now.

“Don’t tell Dad that I am here.  I’ll come back presently with Mrs. Drake.”

And now down the hall came an old gray dog, wild with delight, outracing Polly Ann, who thought it was a play and leaped after him—­Muffin had found his master!

But Derry left Muffin, left Bronson, left Polly Ana, a wistful trio at the front door.  He must find Jean!

The day was darkening, and a light burned far back on the Toy Shop.  Derry, standing outside, saw a room which was the very wraith of the gay little shop as he had left it—­with its white tables, its long counters piled high with finished dressings; the white elephants in a spectral row behind glass doors on the top shelf the only reminder of what it once had been.

He saw, too, a small nun-like figure behind the counter, a figure all in white, with a white veil banded about her forehead and flowing down behind.

All of her bright hair was hidden, her eyes were on the compresses that she was counting.  It seemed to him that there was a sharpened look on the little face.

He had not expected this.  He had felt that he would find her glowing as she had been on that first night when he had followed his father through the rain—­his dream had been of crinkled copper hair, of silver and rose, of youth and laughter and lightness—.

Her letters had been like that—­gay, sparkling—­there had been times when they had seemed almost too exuberant, times when he had wondered if she had really waked to the seriousness of the great struggle, and the part he was to play in it.

Yet now he saw signs of suffering.  He opened the door.  “Jean,” he cried.

With the blood all drained from her face, she stared at him as if she saw a specter—­“Derry,” she whispered.

With his strong arms, he lifted her over the counter.  “Jean-Joan, Jean-Joan—­”

When at last she released herself, it was to laugh through her tears.  “Derry, pull down the shades; what will people think?”

He cared little what people would think.  And, anyway, very few people were passing at that late hour in the rain.  But he pulled them down, and when he came back, he held her off at arm’s length.  “What have you been doing to yourself, dearest?  You are a feather-weight.”

“Well, I’ve been working.”

“How does it happen that you are here alone?”

“Emily had to go down to order supplies, and Margaret went to a Liberty Loan meeting.  I often stay like this to count and tie.”

“Don’t you get dreadfully tired?”

“Yes.  But I think I like to get tired.  It keeps me from thinking too much.”