swered manfully, putting away from himself all that
was weak or selfish, all that touched on love of man for woman:

"Let me be all you ask," he said. "My love is of that kind,
also."

"My darling Jack," she murmured, putting both arms around his
neck.

He kissed her peacefully.

"Come," he said. "Your shoes are soaking. I am going to take
charge of you now."

When they entered the house he took her straight to her room,
drew up an arm-chair, lighted the fire, filled a foot-bath with
hot water, and, calmly opening the wardrobe, pulled out a warm
bath-robe. Then, without the slightest hesitation, he knelt and
unbuttoned her shoes.

"Now," he said, "I'll be back in five minutes. Let me find you
sitting here, with your feet in that hot water."

Before she could answer, he went out. A thrill of comfort passed
through her; she drew the wet stockings over her feet, shivered,
slipped out of skirt and waist, put on the warm, soft bath-robe,
and, sinking back in the chair, placed both little white feet in
the foot-bath.

"I am ready, Jack," she called, softly.

He came in with a tray of tea and toast and a bit of cold
chicken. She followed his movement with tired, shy eyes,
wondering at his knowledge of little things. They ate their
luncheon together by the fire. Twice he gravely refilled the
foot-bath with hotter water, and she settled back in her soft,
warm chair, sighing contentment.

After a while he lighted a cigarette and read to her--fairy tales
from Perrault--legends that all children know--all children who
have known mothers. Lorraine did not know them. At first she
frowned a little, watching him dubiously, but little by little
the music of the words and the fragrance of the sweet, vague
tales crept into her heart, and she listened breathless to the
stories, older than Egypt--stories that will outlast the last
pyramid.

Once he laid down his book and told her of the Prince of Argolis
and AEthra; of the sandals and sword, of Medea, and of the
wreathed wine-cup. He told her, too, of the Isantee, and the
legends of the gray gull, of Harpan and Chaske, and the white
lodge of hope.

She listened like a tired child, her wrist curved under her chin,
the bath-robe close to her throat. While she listened she moved
her feet gently in the hot water, nestling back with the thrill
of the warmth that mounted to her cheeks.

Then they were silent, their eyes on each other.

Down-stairs some rain-soaked officer w