She hastened to where a great cut-glass carafe and its goblet stood on the oak sideboard. He gave an exclamation that suggested more than satisfaction while the water was sobbing in the throat of the bottle, and when he had drunk a clear pint he gave a sigh.
“I haven’t had such a drink for weeks,” he said. “Now, dear girl, I’m dying with sleep, and so, I fancy, are you.”
“You do not mean to sleep here?” she cried. “You will go to your own room, Julian, dear; a fire has been lighted in it every day to keep out any possible damp.”
“I couldn’t think of such luxury when so many of my poor comrades are lying under the cold stars,” said he. “Don’t urge me, Madge; but go to your own bed and sleep well.”
Even while she was still looking at him, he laid his head back among the pillows of the settee and fell asleep. She waited by his side only for a few moments, and then went quietly up to her room. She threw herself on her knees by her bedside and wept tears of joy at the thought that he had come safe home again, with only a wound that a few weeks would heal.
But when she had undressed and got into bed she could not help feeling that his homecoming was strange beyond imagination. He had sent no telegram, he had arrived with the stains of battle still on his uniform, and, strangest of all, his wound was not an old one. Not many hours had passed since he had sustained it.
What on earth was the explanation of all this?
She felt unequal to the task of working out the question. She felt that all other thoughts should give place to the glorious thought that he was safe at home. He would explain everything in the morning.
IV.
When she awoke this thought was dominant. He was at home—safe—safe!