Part of her detachment was voluntary.  She could not bear to remember.  She had but to close her eyes to see Henri’s tragic face that last night at Morley’s.  And part of the detachment was because, after all, the interlude had been but a matter of months, and reaching out familiar hands to her were the habits and customs and surroundings of all the earlier years of her life, drawing her back to them.

It was strange how Henri’s face haunted her.  She could close her eyes and see it, line by line, his very swagger—­for he did swagger, just a little; his tall figure and unruly hair; his long, narrow, muscular hands.  Strange and rather uncomfortable.  Because she could not summon Harvey’s image at all.  She tried to bring before her, that night in the train speeding west, his solid figure and kind eyes as they would greet her the next day—­tried, and failed.  All she got was the profile of the photograph, and the stubborn angle of the jaw.

She was up very early the next morning, and it was then, as the train rolled through familiar country, that she began to find Harvey again.  A flush of tenderness warmed her.  She must be very kind to him because of all that he had suffered.

The train came to a stop.  Rather breathless Sara Lee went out on the platform.  Harvey was there, in the crowd.  He did not see her at first.  He was looking toward the front of the train.  So her first glimpse of him was the view of the photograph.  His hat was off, and his hair, carefully brushed back, gave him the eager look of the picture.

He was a strong and manly figure, as unlike Henri as an oak is unlike one of Henri’s own tall and swaying poplars.  Sara Lee drew a long breath.  Here after all were rest and peace; love and gentleness; quiet days and still evenings.  No more crowds and wounds and weary men, no more great thunderings of guns, no imminence of death.  Rest and peace.

Then Harvey saw her, and the gleam of happiness and relief in his eyes made her own eyes misty.  She saw even in that first glance that he looked thinner and older.  A pang of remorse shot through her.  Was happiness always bought at the cost of happiness?  Did one always take away in order to give?  Not in so many words, but in a flash of doubt the thought went through her mind.

There was no reserve in Harvey’s embrace.  He put his arms about her and held her close.  He did not speak at first.  Then: 

“My own little girl,” he said.  “My own little girl!”

Suddenly Sara Lee was very happy.  All her doubts were swept away by his voice, his arms.  There was no thrill for her in his caress, but there were peace and quiet joy.  It was enough for her, just then, that she had brought back some of the happiness she had robbed him of.

“Oh, Harvey!” she said.  “I’m glad to be back again—­with you.”

He held her off then and looked at her.

“You are thin,” he said.  “You’re not pale, but you are thin.”  And in a harder voice:  “What did they do to you over there?”