“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 platform.

“Boys!  Oh, boys!  There’s poor Jack Morrison’s wife and the little lad he sent his love to!”

The crowd hushed its gay clamor and every head turned towards the woman in black and the chubby child.  They stood quite alone, silent, white-faced, weary.  Jack Morrison was the only one who had not returned with the brave little band of soldiers who had set forth so valiantly months before.