It was there in Blair's white face--the dreadful truth.

He wore a ribbon on his breast and he leaned on a crutch.

For the instant, as father and son faced each other, there was something in Blair's poise, his look of an eagle, that carried home a poignant sense of his greatness.
Lane thrilled with it and a lump constricted his throat.

Then with Blair's ringing "Dad!" and the father's deep and broken: "My son! My son!" the two embraced.
In a stifling moment more it seemed, attention turned on Red Payson, who stood nearest.

Blair's folk were eager, kind, soft-spoken and warm in their welcome.
Then it came Lane's turn, and what they said or did he scarcely knew, until Margaret kissed him.