It occurred to her that she ought to do something-something so special that he'd always remember the day he came through the door and found her waiting. Something that would take his mind off her, and the changes he was sure to see first thing.

Another thought struck her. His letters had been fewer and the weeks between them longer in the past two years. And there had only been one this year. Was he concealing something? She had dreaded word that he was dead, even though he'd spent most of the war safely behind the lines at HQ. But men were wounded every day. Still, if anything terrible had happened to him, he would surely have told her-or asked the sister in charge of his ward to write to her if he couldn't. He would never keep a secret from her. Never. They had always been close and truthful with each other about the smallest thing. Well, of course not about the difference in their ages! He'd always lived a charmed life-he'd told her about the tiger hunt that went badly wrong, and the African warthog that had nearly got him, and the storm that had all but wrecked their troop ship in the middle of the Atlantic, the volcanic eruption in Java when he was trying to bring the natives to safety.

But even charms ran out after a while, didn't they?

His last letter had been written in early summer, telling her how enthusiastic the British were to have the Americans come into the fighting after long weeks of training. He'd told her that he'd soon be busy "mopping up."

The Hun can't last much longer now the Yanks are here. So, dear heart, don't worry. I've made it this far, and I'll make it home. You'll see!

But what if-?

She put the thought out of her mind even before it could frame itself. If anything had happened, surely someone would have come to tell her.

Instead she tried to think what she could do-what would cry welcome and love and hope, and show her gratitude for his safe return at last.