* * * * * 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 rough that now--I should be obliged--to die.... But it is best to go while the going is good--isn't it, sir? It's all a beautiful dream--to me--and it does seem--so jolly--to have you both here." He lay still for a long time; then, rousing himself, said, "I'm afraid I have been dreaming again--no, this is father; you are sure, sir, are you?--about the medal and all that--and this is mother, is it?--it is all quite like going home--I am so happy; it seems as if permission had come." He laughed softly behind his bandages, a queer, little, choking, happy laugh; and there, with his mother's arms around him, while his father, stern no longer, but tender and loving, held his hand, "permission" came and the homesick, hungry heart of the boy entered into rest. CHAPTER IX THE SLACKER--IN UNIFORM Mrs. P.A. Brunton was convinced that she was an exceptional woman in every way. She would tell you this in the first fifteen minutes of conversation that you had with her, for many of her sentences began, "Now, I know, of course, that I am peculiar in many ways"; or, "I am afraid you will not understand me when I say this"; or, "I am afraid I am hopelessly old-fashioned in this." She would explain with painstaking elaboration that she did not know why she was so peculiar, but her manner indicated that she was quite content to be so; indeed, it can only be described as one of boastful resignation. She seemed to glory in her infirmity.