. . . But softly without a sound the dark curtain has rolled down. There is no more to come. That is the end of the play. But it can't end like that—so suddenly. There must be more. No, it's cold, it's still. There is nothing to be gained by waiting.

But—did he go back again ? Or, when the war was over, did he come home for good ? Surely, he will marry—later on—not for several years. Surely, one day I shall remember his wedding and my first grandchild—a beautiful dark-haired boy born in the early morning— a lovely morning—spring !

' Oh, Mother, it's not fair to me to put these ideas into my head! Stop, Mother, stop ! When I think of all I have missed, I can't bear it.'