His position at the time the Arabs broke into the square was close to the right flank of the Indian Native Regiment, which gave way, so that it was he and a number of the flank men of his company who had to do most of the hand-to-hand fighting necessary to repair the disaster and drive back the enemy. Of course every soldier engaged in that part of the fight was, for a time, almost overwhelmed in the confusion, and many of them were surrounded and severely wounded.

When the Native Infantry broke, Hardy’s captain sprang to the front, sword in hand, and cut down two of the foe. As he did so, he was, for a moment, separated from his company and surrounded. A powerful Arab was on the point of thrusting his spear into the captain’s back when Hardy observed his danger, bayoneted the Arab, and saved the officer. But it was almost at the cost of his own life, for another Arab, with whom he had been fighting at the moment, took advantage of the opportunity to thrust his spear into the chest of the sergeant, who fell, as was thought, mortally wounded.

This, however, was not the case, for when the fight was over, his wound, although dangerous, was not supposed to be fatal, and he went into hospital on returning to Suakim. He was a Blue Light, and his temperance habits told in his favour. So did his religion, for the calm equanimity with which he submitted to the will of God, and bore his sufferings, went far to assist the doctor in grappling with his wound. But his religion did more than that, for when he thought of the heaven that awaited him, if he should die, and of being “for ever with the Lord,” his heart was filled with joy; and joy not only “does not kill,”—it is absolutely a source of life. In the sergeant’s case it formed an important factor in restoring him to partial health.

One evening, some time after the battle of McNeill’s zereba, Sutherland and Gaspard Redgrave were seated beside the sergeant’s bed—cheering him up a bit, as they said—and chatting about the details of the recent fight. Once or twice the sergeant had tried to lead the conversation to religious subjects, but without success, for neither Sutherland nor Gaspard were seriously disposed, and both fought shy of such matters.

“Well, it’s very kind of you to come an’ cheer me up, lads,” said Hardy at last; “and I hope I may live to do the same for you, if either of you ever gets knocked over. Now, I want each of you to do me a favour. Will you promise?”

“Of course we will,” said Gaspard quickly.

“If we can,” said the more cautious Scot.

“Well, then, Gaspard, will you sing me a song? I think it would do me good.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” answered the soldier; “but,” he added, looking round doubtfully, “I don’t know how they might like it here.”

“They’ll not object; besides, you can sing low. You’ve got the knack of singin’ soft—better than any man I ever heard.”

“Well, what shall it be?” returned the gratified Gaspard.

“One of Sankey’s hymns,” said the sergeant, with the remotest semblance of a twinkle in his eye, as he took a small hymn-book from under his pillow and gave it to his friend.

Gaspard did not seem to relish the idea of singing hymns, but he had often heard the Blue Lights sing them, and could not plead ignorance of the tunes; besides, being a man of his word, he would not refuse to fulfil his promise.

“Sing Number 68, ‘Shall we gather at the river?’ I’m very fond of that hymn.”

In a sweet, soft, mellow voice, that charmed all who were within hearing, Gaspard began the hymn, and when he had finished there was heard more than one “Amen” and “Thank God” from the neighbouring beds.

“Yes, comrades, we shall gather there,” said the sergeant, after a brief pause, “for the same Almighty Saviour who saved me died for you as well. I ain’t used to wettin’ my cheeks, as you know, lads, but I s’pose my wound has weakened me a bit! Now Sutherland, the favour I have to ask of—”

“If ye’re thinkin’ o’ askin’ me to pray,” broke in the alarmed Scotsman, “ye may save your breath. When I promised, I said, ‘if I can.’ Noo, I can not pray, an’ it’s nae use askin’ me to try. Whatever I may come to in this warld, I’ll no be a heepycrit for ony leevin’ man.”

“Quite right, Sutherland—quite right. I had no intention of asking you to pray,” replied Hardy, with a faint smile. “What I want you to do is to draw out my will for me.”

“Oh! I’m quite willin’ to do that,” returned the relieved Scot.

“You see,” continued the sergeant, “one never knows what may be the result of a bad wound in a climate like this, and if it pleases my Father in heaven to call me home, I should like the few trifles I possess to go in the right direction.”

“That’s a wise-like sentiment,” returned his friend, with an approving nod and thoughtful frown.

“Now, as you write a capital hand, and know how to express yourself on paper,” continued Hardy, “it strikes me that you will do the job better than any one else; and, being a friend, I feel that I can talk freely to you on my private affairs. So you’ll help me?”

“I’m wullin’ to try, serjint, and ac’ the legal adviser—amytoor-like, ye ken.”

“Thank you. Can you come to-morrow morning?”

“No, serjint, I canna, because I’ve to start airly the morn’s mornin’ wi’ a pairty to meet the Scots Gairds comin’ back frae Tamai, but the moment I come back I’ll come to ye.”

“That will do—thank you. And now, Gaspard, what’s the news from England? I hear that a mail has just come in.”

“News that will make your blood boil,” said Gaspard sternly.

“It would take a good deal of powerful news to boil the little blood that is left in me,” said Hardy, languidly.

“Well, I don’t know. Anyhow it makes mine boil. What d’you think of McNeill’s brave defence being represented in the papers as a disaster?”

“You don’t mean that!”

“Indeed I do. They say that it was a disaster! whereas it was a splendid defence under singularly adverse circumstances! They say that General McNeill permitted himself to be surprised! If he had tried to carry out his instructions to the full extent, it would indeed have been such a surprise that the surprising thing would have been if a single man of us had returned alive to tell the tale—as you and I know full well. The truth is, it was the fault of the Intelligence Department that nearly wrecked us, and it was McNeill’s prudence and our pluck that saved us, and yet these quill-drivers at home—bah!”

The soldier rose in hot indignation and strode from the room.

“He’s a wee thing roosed!” remarked Sutherland, with a good-humoured yet slightly cynical grin. “But guid-nicht to ye, ma man. Keep up hert an’ I’ll come an’ draft yer wull i’ the mornin’.”

So saying the “amytoor” lawyer took his departure, and was soon tramping over the desert sands with a band of his comrades.

They were not, however, permitted to tramp in peace, for their indefatigable foe hung on their skirts and annoyed them the greater part of the way. Toward evening they met the Guards, and as it was too late to return to Suakim the force bivouacked in McNeill’s deserted zereba, surrounded by graves and scarcely buried corpses.

Only those who were there can fully understand what that meant. All round the zereba, and for three miles on the Suakim side of it, the ground was strewn thickly with the graves of Europeans, Indians, and Arabs, and so shallow were these that from each of them there oozed a dark, dreadful stain. To add to the horrors of the scene, portions of mangled and putrefying corpses protruded from many of them—ghastly skulls, from the sockets of which the eyes had been picked by vultures and other obscene birds. Limbs of brave men upon which the hyena had already begun his dreadful work, and half-skeleton hands, with fingers spread and bent as if still clutching the foe in death-agony, protruded above the surface; mixed with these, and unburied, were the putrefying carcases of camels and mules—the whole filling the air with a horrible stench, and the soul with a fearful loathing, which ordinary language is powerless to describe, and the inexperienced imagination cannot conceive.

Oh! it is terrible to think that from the Fall till now man has gone on continually producing and reproducing scenes like this—sometimes, no doubt, unavoidably; but often, too often, because of some trifling error, or insult, on the part of statesmen, or some paltry dispute about a boundary, or, not infrequently, on grounds so shadowy and complex that succeeding historians have found it almost impossible to convey the meaning thereof to the intellects of average men!

Amid these dreadful memorials of the recent fight the party bivouacked!

Next day the troops returned to Suakim, and Sutherland, after breakfast, and what he called a wash-up, went to see his friend Sergeant Hardy, with pen, ink, and paper.

“Weel, serjint, hoo are ye the day?”

“Pretty well, thank you—pretty well. Ah! Sutherland, I have been thinking what an important thing it is for men to come to Jesus for salvation while in their health and strength; for now, instead of being anxious about my soul, as so many are when the end approaches, I am rejoicing in the thought of soon meeting God—my Father! Sutherland, my good fellow, it is foolish as well as wrong to think only of this life. Of all men in the world we soldiers ought to know this.”

The sergeant spoke so earnestly, and his eyes withal looked so solemnly from their sunken sockets, that his friend could not help being impressed.

“I believe ye’re no’ far wrang, serjint, an’ I tak’ shame to mysel’ that I’ve been sic a harum-scarum sinner up to this time.”

Sutherland said this with a look so honest that Hardy was moved to put out his large wasted hand and grasp that of his friend.

“Comrade,” he said, “God is waiting to be gracious. Jesus is ever ready and willing to save.”

Sutherland returned the pressure but made no reply; and Hardy, praying for a blessing on the little that had been said, changed the subject by saying—

“You have brought paper and ink, I see.”

“Ay, but, man, ye mauna be speakin’ o’ takin’ yer depairture yet. This draftin’ o’ yer wull is only a precaution.”

“Quite right, lad. I mean it only as a precaution,” returned Hardy, in a cheerful tone. “But you seem to have caught a cold—eh? What makes you cough and clear your throat so?”

“A cauld! I wush it was only a cauld! Man, it’s the stink o’ thae corps that I canna get oot o’ my nose an’ thrapple.”

Hereupon Sutherland, by way of entertaining his invalid friend, launched out into a graphic account of the scene he had so recently witnessed at McNeill’s zereba. When that subject was exhausted, he arranged his writing materials and began with all the solemnity of a lawyer.

“Noo, serjeant, what div ye want me to pit doon?”

“Well, I must explain first that I have very little to leave, and no one to leave it to.”

“What! Nae frien’s ava?”

“Not one. I have neither wife nor child, brother nor sister. I have indeed one old cousin, but he is rich, and would not be benefited by my poor little possessions; besides, he’s a cross-grained old fellow, and does not deserve anything, even though I had something worth leaving. However, I bear him no ill-will, poor man, only I don’t want what I do leave to go to him, which it would if I were to die without a will; because, of course, he is my natural heir, and—”

“Haud ye there, man,” said the Scot abruptly but slowly. “If he’s your nait’ral heir, ye’re his nait’ral heir tae, ye ken.”

“Of course, I am aware of that,” returned the sergeant with an amused look; “but the old man is eccentric, and has always boasted that he means to leave his wealth to some charity. Indeed, I know that he has already made his will, leaving his money to build an hospital—for incurables of some sort, I believe.”

“Ma certy! If I was his lawyer,” said Sutherland, with ineffable scorn, “I wad advise him to erec’ an hospital in his lifetime for incurable eediots, an’ to gang in himsel’ as the first patient. But, come awa wi’ yer wull, serjint.”

“Get ready, then, my lawyer, and see that you put it down all ship-shape, as poor Molloy would have said.”

“Oh, ye needna fear,” said the Scot, “I’m no’ sic an ass as to trust to my ain legal knowledge. But jist you say what ye want an’ I’ll pit it doon, and then write it into a form in the reg’lar way.”

After mentioning a few trifling legacies to various comrades, Hardy said that he had managed to save a hundred pounds during his career, which he wished to divide between his two comrades, John Miles and Willie Armstrong, for whom he expressed strong regard.

Sutherland, instead of noting this down, looked at his friend in sad surprise, thinking that weakness had caused his mind to wander.

“Ye forget, serjint,” he said softly, “that Miles an’ Airmstrang are baith deed.”

“No, lad; no one can say they are certainly dead.”

“Aweel—we canna exactly say it, but when ye consider o’ the born deevils that have gotten haud o’ them, we are entitled to think them deed ony way.”

“They are reported as ‘missing,’ that is all, and that is enough for me. You write down what I tell you, lad. Now, have you got it down?”

“Ay, fifty to each.”

“There may be some interest due on the account,” said the sergeant thoughtfully; “besides, there may be a few things in my kit that I have forgotten—and it’s not worth while dividing such trifles between them.”

“Weel, weel, ye’ve only to mak yin o’ them yer residooary legitee, an’ that’ll pit it a’ richt.”

“True, my lawyer. Let it be so,” said Hardy, with a short laugh at the thought of making so much ado about nothing. “Make Miles my residuary legatee. And now, be off, draw it out fair, an’ leave me to rest, for I’m a trifle tired after all this legal work.”

The will thus carefully considered was duly made out, signed, and witnessed, after which Sergeant Hardy awaited with cheerful resignation whatever fate should be appointed to him.

His strong frame and constitution, undamaged by youthful excess, fought a vigorous battle for life, and he began slowly to mend; but the climate of Suakim was so bad for him that he was finally sent down to the hospital at Alexandria, where, under much more favourable circumstances, he began to recover rapidly.

One of the nurses there was very kind to him. Finding that the sergeant was an earnest Christian, she had many interesting talks with him on the subject nearest his heart.

One day she said to him with unusual animation:

“The doctor says you may go down to the Soldiers’ Institute that has recently been set up here, and stay for some time to recruit. It is not intended for invalids, you know, but the ladies in charge are intimate friends of mine, and have agreed to let you have a room. The Institute stands on a very pleasant part of the shore, exposed to the fresh sea-breezes; and there are lots of books and newspapers and games, as well as lectures, concerts, prayer-meetings, Bible-readings, and—”

“Ay, just like Miss Robinson’s Institute at Portsmouth,” interrupted Hardy. “I know the sort o’ thing well.”

“The Alexandrian Soldiers’ Institute is also Miss Robinson’s,” returned the nurse, with a pleased look; “so if you know the one at Portsmouth, there is no need for my describing the other to you. The change will do you more good in a week than months at this place. And I’ll come to see you frequently. There is a widow lady staying there just now to whom I will introduce you. She has been helping us to nurse here, for she has great regard for soldiers; but her health having broken-down somewhat, she has transferred her services to the Institute for a time. She is the widow of a clergyman who came out here not long ago and died suddenly. You will find her a very sympathetic soul.”

Chapter Twenty.
Old Friends in New Aspects

On the evening of the third day after the conversation narrated in the last chapter, Sergeant Hardy sat in an easy-chair on the verandah of the Soldiers’ Institute at Alexandria, in the enjoyment of a refreshing breeze, which, after ruffling the blue waters of the Mediterranean, came like a cool hand on a hot brow, to bless for a short time the land of Egypt.

Like one of Aladdin’s palaces the Institute had sprung up—not exactly in a night, but in a marvellously short space of time. There was more of interest about it, too, than about the Aladdin buildings; for whereas the latter were evolved magically out of that mysterious and undefinable region termed Nowhere, the Miss Robinson edifice came direct from smoky, romantic London, without the advantage of supernatural assistance.

When Miss Robinson’s soldier friends were leaving for the seat of war in Egypt, some of them had said to her, “Three thousand miles from home are three thousand good reasons why you should think of us!” The “Soldiers’ Friend” took these words to heart—also to God. She did think of them, and she persuaded other friends to think of them, to such good purpose that she soon found herself in possession of funds sufficient to begin the work.

As we have seen, her energetic servant and fellow-worker, Mr Thomas Tufnell, was sent out to Egypt to select a site for the building. The old iron and wood Oratory at Brompton was bought, and sent out at Government expense—a fact which speaks volumes for the Government opinion of the value of Miss Robinson’s work among soldiers.

In putting up the old Oratory, Tufnell had transformed it to an extent that might almost have made Aladdin’s Slave of the Lamp jealous. Certainly, those who were wont to “orate” in the building when it stood in Brompton would have failed to recognise the edifice as it arose in Egypt on the Boulevard Ramleh, between the Grand Square of Alexandria and the sea.

The nave of the old Oratory had been converted into a room, ninety-nine feet long, with couches and tables running down both sides, a billiard-table in the centre, writing materials in abundance, and pictures on the walls. At one end of the room stood a pianoforte, couches, and easy-chairs, and a door opened into a garden facing the sea. Over the door were arranged several flags, and above these, in large letters, the appropriate words, “In the name of the Lord will we set up our banners.” At the other end was a temperance refreshment bar. On a verandah facing the sea men could repose on easy-chairs and smoke their pipes or cigars, while contemplating the peculiarities of an Eastern climate.

It was here that our friend Sergeant Hardy was enjoying that blessed state of convalescence which may be described as gazing straight forward and thinking of nothing!

Of course there were all the other appliances of a well-equipped Institute—such as sleeping-cabins, manager’s room, Bible-class room, lavatory, and all the rest of it, while a handsome new stone building close beside it contained sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, club-room for officers, kitchens, and, by no means least, though last, a large lecture-hall.

But to these and many other things we must not devote too much space, for old friends in new aspects claim our attention. Only, in passing from such details, it may not be out of place to say that it has been remarked that the sight of Miss Robinson’s buildings, steadily rising from the midst of acres of ruins, while men’s minds were agitated by the bombardment and its results, produced a sense of security which had a most beneficial and quietening effect on the town! Indeed, one officer of high rank went so far as to say that the Institute scheme had given the inhabitants more confidence in the intentions of England than anything yet done or promised by Government!

In a rocking-chair beside the sergeant reclined a shadow in loose—remarkably loose—fitting soldier’s costume.

“What a blessed place to sit in and rest after the toils and sufferings of war,” said Hardy, to the shadow, “and how thankful I am to God for bringing me here!”

“It’s a hivenly place intirely,” responded the shadow, “an’ ’tis mesilf as is thankful too—what’s left o’ me anyhow, an’ that’s not much. Sure I’ve had some quare thoughts in me mind since I come here. Wan o’ them was—what is the smallest amount o’ skin an’ bone that’s capable of howldin’ a thankful spirit?”

“I never studied algebra, Flynn, so it’s of no use puttin’ the question to me,” said Hardy; “besides, I’m not well enough yet to tackle difficult questions, but I’m real glad to see you, my boy, though there is so little of you to see.”

“That’s it, sarjint; that’s just where it lies,” returned Flynn, in a slow, weak voice. “I’ve bin occupied wi’ that question too—namely, how thin may a man git widout losin’ the power to howld up his clo’es?”

“You needn’t be uneasy on that score,” said Hardy, casting an amused glance at his companion, “for there’s plenty o’ flesh left yet to keep ye goin’ till you get to old Ireland. It rejoices my heart to see you beside me, thin though you are, for the report up country was that you had died on the way to Suez.”

“Bad luck to their reports! That’s always the way of it. I do think the best way to take reports is to belaive the exact opposite o’ what’s towld ye, an’ so ye’ll come nearest the truth. It’s thrue I had a close shave. Wan day I felt a sort o’ light-hiddedness—as if I was a kind o’ livin’ balloon—and was floatin’ away, whin the doctor came an’ looked at me.

“‘He’s gone,’ says he.

“‘That’s a lie!’ says I, with more truth than purliteness, maybe.

“An’ would ye belave it?—I began to mind from that hour! It was the doctor saved me widout intindin’ to—good luck to him! Anyhow he kep’ me from slippin’ my cable that time, but it was the good nursin’ as brought me back—my blissin’ on the dear ladies as give their hearts to this work all for love! By the way,” continued Flynn, coughing and looking very stern, for he was ashamed of a tear or two which would rise and almost overflow in spite of his efforts to restrain them—but then, you see, he was very weak! “By the way,” he said, “you’ll niver guess who wan o’ the nurses is. Who d’ee think?—guess!”

“I never could guess right, Flynn.”

“Try.”

“Well, little Mrs Armstrong.”

“Nonsense, man! Why, she’s nursin’ her old father in England, I s’pose.”

“Miss Robinson, then?”

“H’m! You might as well say the Prime Minister. How d’ee s’pose the Portsmuth Institute could git along widout her? No, it’s our friend Mrs Drew!”

“What! The wife o’ the reverend gentleman as came out with us in the troop-ship?”

“That same—though she’s no longer the wife of the riverend gintleman, for he’s dead—good man,” said Flynn, in a sad voice.

“I’m grieved to hear that, for he was a good man. And the pretty daughter, what of her?”

“That’s more nor I can tell ye, boy. Sometimes her mother brings her to the hospital to let her see how they manage, but I fancy she thinks her too young yet to go in for sitch work by hersilf. Anyhow I’ve seen her only now an’ then; but the poor widdy comes rig’lar—though I do belave she does it widout pay. The husband died of a flyer caught in the hospital a good while since. They say that lots o’ young fellows are afther the daughter, for though the Drews are as poor as church rats, she’s got such a swate purty face, and such innocent ways wid her, that I’d try for her mesilf av it wasn’t that I’ve swore niver to forsake me owld grandmother.”

Chatting thus about times past and present, while they watched the soldiers and seamen who passed continuously in and out of the Institute—intent on a game, or some non-intoxicant refreshment, or a lounge, a look at the papers, a confab with a comrade, or a bit of reading—the two invalids enjoyed their rest to the full, and frequently blessed the lady who provided such a retreat, as well as her warm-hearted assistants, who, for the love of Christ and human souls, had devoted themselves to carry on the work in that far-off land.

“I often think—” said Hardy.

But what he thought was never revealed; for at that moment two ladies in deep mourning approached, whom the sergeant recognised at a glance as Mrs Drew and her daughter Marion. The faces of both were pale and sorrowful; but the beauty of the younger was rather enhanced than otherwise by this, and by contrast with her sombre garments.

They both recognised the sergeant at once, and, hastening forward, so as to prevent his rising, greeted him with the kindly warmth of old friends.

“It seems such a long time since we met,” said the elder lady, “but we have never forgotten you or the comrades with whom we used to have such pleasant talks in the troop-ship.”

“Sure am I, madam,” said the sergeant, “that they have never forgotten you and your kind—kind—”

“Yes, my husband was very kind to you all,” said the widow, observing the delicacy of feeling which stopped the soldier’s utterance; “he was kind to every one. But we have heard some rumours that have made me and my daughter very sad. Is it true that a great many men of your regiment were killed and wounded at the battle fought by General McNeill?”

“Quite true, madam,” answered the sergeant, glancing at the daughter with some surprise; for Marion was gazing at him with an intensely anxious look and parted lips. “But, thank God, many were spared!”

“And—and—how are the two fine-looking young men that were so fond of each other—like twins almost—”

“Sure, didn’t I tell ye, misthress, that they was both ki—”

“Hold your tongue, Flynn,” interrupted the widow, with a forced smile. “You are one of my most talkative patients! I want to hear the truth of this matter from a man who has come more recently from the scene of action than yourself. What do you think, Mr Hardy?”

“You refer to John Miles and William Armstrong, no doubt, madam,” said the sergeant, in a somewhat encouraging tone. “Well, if Flynn says they were killed he has no ground whatever for saying so. They are only reported missing. Of course that is bad enough, but as long as a man is only missing there is plenty of room for hope. You see, they may have managed to hide, or been carried off as prisoners into the interior; and you may be sure the Arabs would not be such fools as to kill two men like Miles and Armstrong; they’d rather make slaves of ’em, in which case there will be a chance of their escaping, or, if we should become friendly again wi’ these fellows, they’d be set free.”

“I’m so glad to hear you say so, and I felt sure that my desponding patient here was taking too gloomy a view of the matter,” said Mrs Drew, with a significant glance at Marion, who seemed to breathe more freely and to lose some of her anxious expression after the sergeant’s remarks.

Perhaps at this point a little conversation that took place between Mrs Drew and her daughter that same evening may not be out of place.

“Dear May,” said the former, “did I not tell you that Flynn took too gloomy a view of the case of these young soldiers, in whom your dear father was so much interested? But, darling, is it not foolish in you to think so much about Miles?”

“It may be foolish, mother, but I cannot help it,” said Marion, blushing deeply; for she was very modest as well as simple.

“May, dear, I wonder that you can make such an admission!” said the mother remonstratively.

“Is it wrong to make such an admission to one’s own mother, when it is true?” asked Marion, still blushing, but looking straight in her mother’s eyes; for she was very straightforward as well as modest and simple!

“Of course not, dear, but—but—in short, Miles is only a—a—soldier, you know, and—”

“Only a soldier!” interrupted Marion, with a flash from her soft brown eyes; for she was an enthusiast as well as straightforward, modest, and simple! “I suppose you mean that he is only a private, but what then? May not the poorest private in the army rise, if he be but noble-minded and worthy and capable, to the rank of a general, or higher—if there is anything higher? Possibly the Commander-in-Chief-ship may be open to him!”

“True, my love, but in the meantime his social position is—”

“Is quite as good as our own,” interrupted Marion; for she was a desperate little radical as well as an enthusiast, straightforward, modest, and simple!

“You know he let out something about his parents and position, and of course he told the truth. Besides, I repeat that I cannot help loving him, and surely we are not responsible for our affections. We cannot love and hate to order. I might fall in love with—with—well, it’s no good talking; but, anyhow, I could not help it. I could be silent if you like, but I could not help myself.”

Mrs Drew seemed a little puzzled how to deal with her impetuous daughter, and had begun to reply, when May interrupted her. Flushing deeply, for she was very sensitive, and with a feeling that amounted almost to indignation, she continued—

“I wonder at you, mother—it’s so unlike you; as if those unworthy considerations of difference of rank and station could influence, or ought to influence, one in such a question as this!”

Mrs Drew paused for a moment. She knew that her daughter gave expression to the views that had marked the dealings of the husband and father, so lately lost to them, in every action of his life. Marion’s happiness, too, during the remainder of her days, might be involved in the result of the present conversation, and she was moved to say—

“My dear, has John Miles ever spoken to you?”

“Oh! mother, how can you ask me? If he had done so, would I have delayed one minute in letting you know?”

“Forgive me, dearest. I did you wrong in admitting the thought even for a moment. But you spoke so earnestly—as if you might have some reason for thinking that he cared for you.”

“Don’t you know,” answered Marion, looking down, and a little confused, “that men can speak with their eyes as well as their lips? I not only feel sure that he cares for me, but I feel sure, from the sentiments he expressed to me on the voyage, that nothing would induce him to talk to me of love while in his present position.”

“How does all this consist, my love,” asked Mrs Drew, “with your knowledge of the fact that he left home in anger, and would not be persuaded, even by your dear father, to write home a penitent letter?”