nothing else
to talk about. The thing that she had looked forward so eagerly to
telling--that was barred. And the small gossip of their little circle,
purely personal and trivial, held only faint interest for her. For the
first time they had no common ground to meet on.

Yet it was a very happy man who went whistling to his room that night.
He was rather proud of himself too. After all the bitterness of the
past months, he had been gentle and loving to Sara Lee. He had not
scolded her.

In the next room he could hear her going quietly about, opening and
closing the drawers of the new bureau, moving a chair. Pretty soon, God
willing, they need never be separated. He would have her always, to
protect and cherish and love.

He went outside to her closed door.

"Good night, sweetheart," he called softly.

"Good night, dear," came her soft reply.

But long after he was asleep Sara Lee stood at her window and listened
to the leaves, so like the feet of weary men on the ruined street over
there.

For the first time she was questioning the thing she had done. She
loved Harvey--but there were many kinds of love. There was the love of
Jean for Henri, and there was the wonderful love, though the memory now
was cruel and hurt her, of Henri for herself. And there was the love of
Marie for the memory of Maurice the spy. Many kinds of love; and one
heart might love many people, in different ways.

A small doubt crept into her mind. This feeling she had for Harvey was
not what she had thought it was over there. It was a thing that had
belonged to a certain phase of her life. But that phase was over. It
was, like Marie's, but a memory.

This Harvey of the new car and the increased income and the occasional
hardness in his voice was not the Harvey she had left. Or perhaps it
was she who had changed. She wondered. She felt precisely the same,
tender toward her friends, unwilling to hurt them. She did not want
to hurt Harvey.

But she did not love him as he deserved to be loved. And she had a
momentary lift of the veil, when she saw the long vista of the years,
the two of them always together and always between them hidden,
untouched, but eating like a cancer, Harvey's resentment and suspicion
of her months away from him.

There would always be a barrier between them. Not only on Harvey's side.
There were things she had no right to tell--of Henri, of his love and
care for her, and of that last terrible day when he realized