Pom Pom pricked up his ears and growled, then whined to be let out. Lucie went to the door. Two men stood there; one was Jean, easily enough recognized, the second she could not at once identify. But presently she gave a wild cry. “It is! It is! Mother, come quickly; it is papa!”
And so it was, very thin and haggard, rather weakly trembling, but unharmed. For a while there were more tears than smiles, but they were tears of joy.
Upon the scarred and tortured land descended the spirit of Christmas. In spite of countless crosses, stretching mile after mile across the country, in spite of deserted firesides, of blackened ruins, of sickening memories and mourning hearts, there was peace. The children of France gave reverent thanks and rejoiced that their beloved land, torn, despoiled, devastated though it was, still remained their own land.
“In her children lie her hopes,” said the old curé, stopping to speak to Captain Du Bois. “The flower of our country has been cut down, but the roots are there and from them will spring up a new race of men. There is much to do, my dear Marcel, but it will be accomplished in time. It may be years before we see the land restored; it may not be in my day, but in yours. Oh, yes, I have faith to believe it will not be many years before France will be as radiantly lovely as ever. We have suffered, but we do not despair, and we shall learn how blessed is work. You build up your chimneys again. Marcel?” He looked toward the factories.
“I hope to,” replied Captain Du Bois. “It must be a question of time, of course. I am not so hale as I was, and wish I might unite my experience to the enthusiasm of a younger man.”
The curé nodded. “That may work out. One cannot tell. The ways of Heaven are manifold. The hour and the man frequently arrive together. It will be a happy day for me when I see our town restored to some of its former usefulness and beauty. It will come, Marcel; it will come. Much has been taken, but much is left.” He raised his hand in blessing and the two parted. Captain Du Bois watched the good man in his shabby soutane as he went on up the street, and felt warmed by the fine fire of faith and hope which illumined the face of this good friend who had lost so much and who yet maintained his simple belief in the higher orderings of Heaven.
“Much has been taken, but much is left,” pondered Marcel Du Bois as he entered his little home. His wife, his daughter, these two best blessings were left. He went in smiling and put an arm around each. “Much has been taken, but much is left,” he quoted. “Another Christmas, perhaps, shall see the factory chimneys smoking, shall see our old home restored, life again something as it was before the war.”
“And what shall we do with this little house?” asked Lucie, leaning back against his shoulder and looking up at him.
“This little house? We’ll have to let Paulette, Jean and Odette live in it, unless you are counting upon it to use as a doll house.”
“A doll house,” cried Lucie contemptuously. “Why, papa, I am grown up.”