Aunt Louisa here dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief in a way that her brother-in-law particularly detested.

“You will hear more about the war some of these days,” he said, “when a German Zeppelin drops bombs on London.”

Aunt Louisa came as near snorting as a well-bred lady could come, so great was her disdain at this suggestion.

“Zeppelin!” she said scornfully—­“on England!!  You forget, sir, that we are living in a civilized age!  Zeppelin!  Indeed, and who would let them, I wonder!  I am surprised at you, sir, and so is mother, although she has not spoken.”

“You will probably be more surprised before long; life is full of surprises these days.”

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.