Europe, presented a warm and cheerful interior to John. It seemed to him
soon after the huge bronze door sank into place behind him that war,
cold, desolation and loneliness were shut out. The luminous glow
streaming through the stained glass windows and the candle burning near
the altar were beacons.

Then he saw Julie, sitting wrapped in a heavy cloak, in one of the pews
before the choir, and the grim Suzanne, also shrouded in a heavy cloak,
sat beside her. John's heart was in a glow. He knew now that he loved
his comrade Philip's sister. Two or three of the golden curls escaping
from her hood, fell down her back, and they were twined about his heart.
He knew too that it was not the light from the stained windows, but
Julie herself who had filled the church with splendor. She was to John a
young goddess, perfect in her beauty, one who could do no wrong. His
love had all the tenderness and purity of young love, the poetic love
that comes only to youth.

But when he realized that Julie Lannes had become so much to him he felt
a sudden shyness, and he let the gigantic Picard lead the way. They had
made no noise in opening and closing the door, and their boots had been
soundless on the stone floor.

"The American, Lieutenant Scott, Mademoiselle," said Picard
respectfully.

John saw her little start of surprise, but when she stood up she was
quite self-possessed. Her color was a little deeper than usual, but it
might be the luminous glow from the stained-glass windows, or the cloak
of dark red which wrapped her from chin to feet may have given that
added touch.

She had been weary and anxious, and John thought he detected a gleam of
welcome in her glance. At least it pleased him to think so. The stern
Suzanne had given him a startled look, but the glance seemed to John
less hostile than it used to be.

"I was told, Miss Lannes," said John in English, "that you had received
a letter from your brother, Philip, to meet him here in Chastel. One
Weber, an Alsatian, an able and trustworthy man whom I know, gave me the
news."

It had often been his habit, when speaking his own language, to call
her, American fashion, "Miss" instead of "Mademoiselle," and now she
smiled at the little, remembered touch.

"It was Mr. Weber who brought the letter to me in Paris, Mr. Scott," she
said. "You know it was my wish to serve our brave soldiers hurt in
battle, and I was not surprised that the letter from Philip should
come."

"In