It was early in June when at last the lights went down behind the back
drop and came up in front, to show Sara Lee knitting again, though not
by the fire. The amazing interlude was over.

Over, except in Sara Lee's heart. The voyage had been a nightmare. She
had been ill for one thing--a combination of seasickness and
heartsickness. She had allowed Henri to come to England with her, and
the Germans had broken through. All the good she had done--and she had
helped--was nothing to this mischief she had wrought.

It had been a small raid. She gathered that from the papers on board.
But that was not the vital thing. What mattered was that she had let a
man forget his duty to his country in his solicitude for her.

But as the days went on the excitement of her return dulled the edge of
her misery somewhat. The thing was done. She could do only one thing
to help. She would never go back, never again bring trouble and
suffering where she had meant only to bring aid and comfort.

She had a faint hope that Harvey would meet her at the pier. She needed
comforting and soothing, and perhaps a bit of praise. She was so very
tired; depressed, too, if the truth be known. She needed a hand to lead
her back to her old place on the stage, and kind faces to make her forget
that she had ever gone away.