Then I felt her hand gently, stroking my head. How soft that hand was!
What a blissfulness there was in that quiet, gentle stroking!
Is there anybody who knows how to caress like a mother? Is there
anything in the world that holds such rapturous joy?...
After a little while she took my chin in her hands and raised my head.
Our eyes met. Hers were soft and shining--a fathomless deep of love to
gaze into.
Her face was grey and there was a quivering about her firmly-closed
lips. But I could see that she was happy--silently, speechlessly happy.
I felt her lips on my forehead. It was like a great solemnity to me.
And then she said in a soft whisper:
"My own big boy--my own big boy--thank God for ever that I have you
back again!"
A sad little smile passed over her face, and, as if she felt a desire
to say something showing a little of her warm-hearted and charming
humour, she added between smiles and tears:
"But you are _not_ such a handsome boy as when you went away."
Then she broke down and bent her face over mine.
That was my home-coming. I had looked forward to it and it had given me
all the happiness I could wish for.
(The Danish soldier boy tells the tragic story of the "folk back home;"
how mothers, and wives and children are "waiting" for their loved ones.
His whole story is one of the most pathetic and loving tales of the
broken hearts of the war.)