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HE young man who called himself Barney, because an Indian had used that name for him, and who had added the surname, Loutrelle, had never, for himself and upon his personal errand, entered such a home as that on Scott Street. Of course, when he had been serving as a soldier abroad, and particularly after his conduct in the field had won him a commission, he had gone as guest to many great private houses, both in England and in France,—to town houses near Buckingham Palace, to marvellously perfect and story-book-like country places in Sussex and Kent; to the maisons and apartments where a dweller upon the Avenue Kléber or the Boulevard de Bois de Boulogne was chez lui and to the châteaux of the Loire. Barney had appreciated and greatly benefited by the privileges of these visits; but he had never been stupid enough to imagine that the gracious English and French gentlemen and ladies welcomed him into their homes in other than a sort of official capacity; he knew that no matter who, or what, he was, the mere fact that he was offering his life in their cause won him indulgence. Of course, Barney had made many warm, intimate friends in his Canadian battalion, where he served until the United States came into the war; but most of his comrades had been killed. Huston Adley, whose cousins lived in Kensington, was