That was Johnny's way,--a way that went unquestioned, since he had lived there long enough to feel at home.

Lite remembered with an odd feeling of pity how Johnny had praised the first gingerbread which Jean had baked, the day after her arrival; and how he had eaten three pieces and had made Jean's cheeks burn with confusion at his bold flattery.
He had come back, and he had helped himself to the gingerbread.

And then he had been shot down.

He was lying in there now, just as he had fallen, and his blood was staining deep the fresh-scrubbed floor.

And Jean would be coming home soon.