he
generals and statesmen on the steps of the Town-hall back of him? Tall
and slender, crowned with youth and beauty, did he not hold in his hand
the hearts of all his people? And to-day he was passing on merit to two
English dames, and the people were glad of this, for the two English
dames had been kind to their soldiers in sickness, and had undergone no
little peril to carry them comfort and healing. Yes, they were glad to
shout and clap hands, when, as Chevaliers of the Order of Leopold, the
ribbon and star pendant were pinned on the breast of the sturdy Mrs.
Bracher, and the silent, charming Scotch. The band bashed the cymbals
and beat the drum, and the wind instruments roared approval. And the
modest young King saluted the two brave ladies.

In a shop door, a couple of hundred yards from the ceremony, Hilda was
standing quietly watching the joyous crowds and their King. Pushing
through the throng that hemmed her in, a massive man came and stood by
her.

"Ah, Mr. Barkleigh," said Hilda, "this is a surprise."

"It's a shame," he began.

"What's a shame?" asked Hilda.

"Why aren't they decorating you? You're the bravest of the lot."

"By no means," said Hilda; "those two women deserve all that is coming
to them. I am glad they are getting their pretty ribbon."

With a sudden nervous gesture, Barkleigh unfastened the bright
decorations on his chest, and placed them in Hilda's hand.

"Take them and wear them," he said, "I have no heart for them any more.
They are yours."

"I didn't win them, so I can't wear them," she answered, and started to
hand them back.

"No, I won't take them back," he said harshly, brushing her hand from
him, "if you won't wear them, keep them. Hide them, throw them away. I'm
done with them. I can't wear them any more since that afternoon in
Nieuport."

Hilda pinned the ribbons upon his coat.

"I decorate you," she said, "for, verily, you are now worthy."

THE BELGIAN REFUGEE

By acts not his own, his consciousness is crowded with
horror. Names of his ancient cities which should ring
pleasantly in his ear--Louvain, Dinant, Malines: there is an
echo of the sound of bells in the very names--recall him to
his suffering. No indemnity will cleanse his mind of the
vileness committed on what he loved. By every aspect of a
once-prized beauty, the face of his torment is made more
clear. Of all that fills the life of memory--the secure
ho