She rose as a group of men approached.  “They want me to sing for them.  You won’t mind?”

“My dear girl, I have heard of you everywhere.  I believe that some of the fellows say their prayers to you at night—­”

She stood up and sang.  Her hair caught the light from the room back of her.  She gave them a popular air or two, a hymn, “The Marseillaise—­”

He missed nothing in her then.  In spite of her paleness, the old fire was there, the passion of patriotism—­there was, too, a new note of triumphant faith.

She needed no candles now, no red and white and blue for a background—­she did not even need her beauty, her voice was enough—­

When she sat down and the men had gone she said to Derry, “Do you remember when I last sang the ‘Marseillaise’ for you?”

“Yes.”

He brought out from his pocket a tiny object and set it on the step, so that the light from the open door shone on it.

“You gave it to me, Drusilla.”

“Oh, my little tin soldier.”

“And after all, he came to the wars—­”

Very proudly the little soldier shouldered his musket.

He had indeed come to the wars, and the winds of France blew upon him, the stars of France were over his head, the soil of France was beneath his feet.

Trutter-a-trutt, trutter-a-trutt—­blew all the bugles of France, and the little tin soldier was at last content!

Derry had, too, in his pocket a letter from Jean; he read to Drusilla the part that belonged to her.

“Tell Drusilla that there’s a chair in our dream house for her.  I often shut my eyes and see her in it, and I see Daddy and you, Derry, all home safe from the war and the world at peace—­”

“Safe and at home and the world at peace—.  Will the time ever come, Derry?”

“You know it will come.  It must—­”

It was three days later that Dr. McKenzie motored over for a late supper with Drusilla and Derry.  They were served by the old woman who had mothered the lonely girl.

“To think,” the Doctor said, as they sat at their frugal board, “to think that we three should be here in the midst of all this; and yet a year ago I was wondering what to do with the rest of my life, Drusilla was running around telling people what kind of pictures to put on their walls, and what kind of draperies to put at their windows, and Derry was trying to pretend that he was not an elegant idler; and now—­we are seeing a world made over—­”

“You are seeing the world of men made over,” said Drusilla, “but the most wonderful thing is seeing the women made over.”

“I don’t want to see the women made over,” the Doctor groaned.  “They are nice enough as it is.  I want my little Jean gay and smiling—­and Derry tells me that she is a nun in a white veil.”

“She is more than that,” Derry said, and a great light came into his eyes.  “I sometimes feel that she and Drusilla are holding hands across the sea—­two brave women in different spheres.”