"Lenore!" he said, with far-off voice that just reached her. Gladness shone from his shadowy eyes.
"Welcome home—my soldier boy!" she replied. Then she bent to kiss his cheek and to lay hers beside it.
"I never—hoped—to see you—again," he went on.
"Oh, but I knew!" murmured Lenore, lifting her head. His right hand, brown, bare, and rough, lay outside the coverlet upon his breast. It was weakly reaching for her. Lenore took it in both hers, while she gazed steadily down into his eyes. She seemed to see then how he was comparing the image he had limned upon his memory with her face.
"Changed—you're older—more beautiful—yet the same," he said. "It seems—long ago."
"Yes, long ago. Indeed I am older. But—all's well that ends well. You are back."
"Lenore, haven't you—been told—I can't live?"
"Yes, but it's untrue," she replied, and felt that she might have been life itself speaking.
"Dear, something's gone—from me. Something vital gone—with the shell that—took my arm."
"No!" she smiled down upon him. All the conviction of her soul and faith she projected into that single word and serene smile—all that was love and woman in her opposing death. A subtle, indefinable change came over Dorn.