"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.
"Please don't, father," he said, speaking with difficulty; "I am only very happy—indeed, quite jolly. But you mustn't feel sorry, father—I have been quite a duffer! thanks awfully for all you have done for me—I know how disappointed you were in me—I did want to make good for your sakes and it is a bit rough that now—I should be obliged—to die.... But it is best to go while the going is good—isn't it, sir? It's all a beautiful dream—to me—and it does seem—so jolly—to have you both here."
He lay still for a long time; then, rousing himself, said, "I'm afraid I have been dreaming again—no, this is father; you are sure, sir, are you?—about the medal and all that—and this is mother, is it?—it is all quite like going home—I am so happy; it seems as if permission had come."
He laughed softly behind his bandages, a queer, little, choking, happy laugh; and there, with his mother's arms around him, while his father, stern no longer, but tender and loving, held his hand, "permission" came and the homesick, hungry heart of the boy entered into rest.