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.
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