o his home, Miss Jemima and Kate going with him to the little wayside
station. Cy, gotten up in great style, followed, while the rear was
brought up by a motley procession,--all eager for the honor of
carrying some of the belongings. The Squire, with Don the old Irish
setter, stood in the doorway until Billy passed out of sight; then the
two together, the old man and the old dog, went back into the silent
house.

The path to the station wound its way through a field of ripening
wheat, from whence the clear whistle of a partridge smote sharply
though the fervid air. Billy paused, and, pointing to a tangle of
blackberry, exclaimed: "There's a nest there as sure as shooting, and
I'll go there to-mor--" A quick catching of the breath cut short the
unfinished words, and the boy, with lips slightly drawn, quickened his
pace. Kate, choking down her sobs, held his hand in her tight clasp,
as she kept pace with his hurried step. Miss Jemima, steadying her
voice, remarked with a sprightly air that there would be fine shooting
when he should come back in the autumn. Then the little station came
into view, looking very empty and deserted; two men loading a flat car
were the only living objects to be seen. They paused in their work to
greet Billy, and ask where he was off to. It seemed so strange a
thing to Kate that all the world did not know.

The train was not on time, and the waiting became so painful that it
was almost with gladness that they heard the warning whistle far down
the track. A small crowd had gradually collected, and some one
remarked: "She's blowin' for the bridge. It'll be ten minutes before
she's here." To the tumultuously throbbing hearts of the little party
it was a positive relief when a puff of smoke was seen and the engine
came rushing around the bend. Then there were hurried kisses; the bell
clanged, a voice called out, "All aboard," and the train was off.
"Gone, gone, gone," Kate repeated over and over to herself, as she
gazed with tearless eyes into the dim distance of the now silent
track.

As the party retraced their steps homeward the partridge was still
calling his cheerful "Bob White" from amid the wheat, while from the
shadowy depth of a laurel thicket came the sweet gurgle of the
wood-thrush.

In the late summer, news--glorious news--came that the foe had been
driven back, and their boy was unhurt.

Later, a man from the front at home on furlough was heard to say that
"Billy Swan was a regu