You give me hope in--in spite of all....

If you need me, call.
Good night." Lane was alone in the little room that had lived in waking and dreaming thought.

Except to appear strangely smaller, it had not changed.

His bed and desk--the old bureau--the few pictures--the bookcase he had built himself--these were identical with images in his memory.
A sweet and wonderful emotion of peace pervaded his soul--fulfilment at last of the soldier's endless longing for home, bed, quiet, rest.
"If I have to die--I can do it _now_ without hate of all around me," he whispered, in the passion of his spirit.
But as he sat upon his bed, trying with shaking and clumsy hands to undress himself, that exalted mood flashed by.

Some of the dearest memories of his life were associated with this little room.