ed every line that touched on that wonderful fight, but
their pride fairly broke bounds when in the great city papers they read
this description:

"Throughout the thickest of the fight, a small but noticeable figure
held his ground like a rock. It was a stocky little 'Canuck' bugler,
whose life seemed almost charmed, so thickly did the Boer bullets pepper
about him, leaving him absolutely unhurt."

"That's Billy!" they shouted hoarsely at each other. "Billy, as sure
as you're alive!" Then they fairly covered the town with the news,
gathering all the boys together in one big rejoicing crowd, telling each
other over and over again the story of the battle, and joining in the
monster parade, carrying banners, flags, lanterns and torches, to give
honor to Canadian pluck and patriotism.

* * * * * * * *

And then, one day, a train came steaming and roaring into the station.
The thronging crowds, the gay flags, the merry bands, and the ringing
cheers, were a welcome greeting for the little knot of war-worn men who
had fought so loyally for queen and country.

"The stocky little Canuck!" as everyone now called Billy Jackson, was
almost the last to alight from the train. He looked terribly shy and
bashful at the uproarious reception he got; but he stood erect in his
faded and patched old khaki uniform, his battered bugle still flashed
back the sunlight, and his handgrip was as firm as his father's as
the boys crowded up, yelling, "What's the matter with Gun-Shy Billy?
_He's all right_!"

But even as they cheered and welcomed him, Billy's eyes grew strangely
odd-looking. The shyness and the smile seemed to sink out of them. His
glance had caught sight of a slender, black-draped figure standing far
back from the welcoming crowd--the figure of a young woman whose fingers
clasped the chubby hand of a boy about three years old. For an instant
Billy stood voiceless, his eyes staring, his mouth twitching nervously,
his hands rigid and icy.

"Come on! Come on, fellows!" shouted the boys, as the crowd surged
closer about him, and friendly hands seized him by arm and shoulder.

But he moved not a step.

"Why, Billy, what's up?" exclaimed a dozen excited voices. "Come on! The
carriages are waiting to start the parade! The band's getting in line.
Hurry up! Hurry up!"

Then Billy spoke. His voice came, shaky, as in the old, gun-shy days;
but quietly as he spoke, the words seemed to reach across the whole
station platf