“You come back?” she cried out, her voice sharpened by joy.
“The war is end',” said Honoré. “Peace is declare' yesterday!” He threw his bundle down and looked fondly around the rough walls. “All de peop' laugh at me because I go to war when de war is end'!”
“They laugh because de war is end'! I laugh too?” said Clethera, relaxing to sobs. Tears and cries which had been shut up a day and a night were let loose with French abandon. Honoré opened his arms to comfort her in the old manner, and although she rushed into them, strange embarrassment went with her. The two could not look at each other.
“It is de 'omesick,” she explained. “When you go to war it make me 'omesick.”
“Me, too,” owned Honoré. “I never know what it is before. I not mind de fighting, but I am glad de war is end', account of de 'omesick!”
He pushed the hair from her wet face. The fate of temperament and the deep tides of existence had them in merciless sweep.
“Clethera,” represented Honoré, “the rillation is not mix' bad with Jules and Melinda.”
Clethera let the assertion pass unchallenged.
“And this house, it pretty good house. You like it well as de hudder?”
“It have no loft,” responded Clethera, faintly, “but de chimney not smoke.”