ays."

Just then the butler brought him a wire, the contents of which seemed
to bear out this theory, for it told him that Private Stanley Goodman,
of the First Canadian Battalion, for conspicuous bravery under fire
had been recommended for the D.C.M., but regretted to inform him that
Private Goodman had been seriously wounded and was now in the Third
Canadian Hospital, Flanders.

The nursing sister, accustomed to strange sights, wondered why this
wounded man was so cold, and then she noticed that he had not on his
overcoat, and she asked him why he was not wearing it on such a bitter
cold night as this. In spite of all his efforts his teeth chattered as
he tried to answer her.

"I had to leave a dead friend of mine on the field to-night," said
Stanley, speaking with difficulty. "And I could not leave him there
with the rain falling on him, could I, sister? It seemed hard to have
to leave him, anyway, but we got all the wounded in."

* * * * *

In twenty-four hours after they received the telegram his father and
mother stood by his bedside. Only his eyes and his forehead could be
seen, for the last bullet which struck him had ploughed its way
through his cheek; the chin which had so offended his father's
artistic eye--what was left of it--was entirely hidden by the bandage.
The chill which he had taken, with the loss of blood, and the shock of
a shrapnel wound in his side, made recovery impossible, the nurse
said. While they stood beside the bed waiting for him to open his
eyes, the nurse told them of his having taken off his coat to cover a
dead comrade.

When at last Stanley opened his eyes, there was a broken and sorrowful
old man, from whose spirit all the imperious pride had gone, kneeling
by his bedside and humbly begging his forgiveness. On the other side
of the bed his mother stood with a great joy in her faded face.

"Stanley--Stanley," sobbed his father, every reserve broken down; "I
have just found you--and now how can I lose you so soon. Try to live
for my sake, and let me show you how sorry I am."

Stanley's eyes showed the distress which filled his tender heart.

"Please don't, father," he said, speaking with difficulty; "I am only
very happy--indeed, quite jolly. But you mustn't feel sorry, father--I
have been quite a duffer! thanks awfully for all you have done for
me--I know how disappointed you were in me--I did want to make good
for your sakes and it is a bit