"I ain't a-goin' to argify no more," she said one day, "for you laughs at everythink, Mr. Bennett. 'Tis a pity you weren't born a heathen; you seems to think so well o' their darkness. But I ain't a-goin' to alter myself because you laughs so, and I'm a-goin' out to Indy if I grows up and can manage it. And I shall tell them heathen what you said of 'em—that they didn't want no Bibles." "Oh, they'll like 'em," put in the irrepressible Tom; "they'll eat 'em up quite cheerful like, and ask for more." "And I would rather," said Peggy, ignoring this sally, "be our black cat here, Mr. Bennett, with no head, nor understandin', nor nothink, than be you, who can understand what's told you to do, and only makes a mock at it. And I won't talk no more to you. I ain't angry, but I pities you. And I hopes as how you won't speak to me no more, except to pass the time o' day, and then we won't be able to argify." This attitude of mind she preserved, and there was peace accordingly in the kitchen. Captain D'Arcy was soon quite convalescent. His servant was full of importance one day. "The captin and me has been to the War Office, and the captin has been asked a good many questions about our expedition up them heathen mountains. I told you that we were only just back when our major died, and the captin was taken ill. It seems that they be very interested in our doin's up in them outlandish parts, and the captin has to prepare some reports about 'em. He be in high feather about it, and he'll be knee-deep in pen and ink and paper for the next few weeks, you mark my words if he don't!" Tom Bennett's assertion proved true. Captain D'Arcy spent most of his days now in the library, writing and rewriting his papers for the War Office. His aunt remonstrated one evening as she was going to bed, and he assured her that he had still a couple of hours' work before he could retire. "You will not regain your strength at this rate, Harry." "My dear Aunt, I am as fit as a fiddle. But I think to-night will see me through." Two hours after, he was finishing his last sheet, and his last cigar. "There," he said to himself, as he rose from the library table, and pitched his cigar-stump into the waste-paper basket, "I've finished at last, thank goodness! Now to bed!" He locked up his papers in his despatch-box, which he left on a shelf in the corner of the room, and then, turning out the gas, he went lightheartedly upstairs.