“Far better than when you saw her. Indeed, I should say perfectly restored to health. She walks long walks, and takes rides on a mountain pony, and looks like one who had never known illness.” “Not married yet?” said he with a faint smile. “No; he is coming back next month and they will probably be married before Christmas.” “And as much in love as ever--he, I mean?” “Fully; and she too.” “Pshaw! She never cared for him; she never could care for him. She tried it--did her very utmost I saw the struggle, and I saw its failure, and I told her so?” “You told her so!” “Why not? It was well for the poor girl that one human being in all the world should understand and feel for her. And she is determined to marry him?” “Yes; he is coming back solely with that object.” “How was it that none of his letters spoke of me? Are you quite sure they did not?” “I am perfectly sure, for she always gave them to me to read.” “Well!” cried he, boldly, as he stood up, and threw his head haughtily back, “the fellow who led Calvert’s Horse--that was the name my irregulars were known by--might have won distinction enough to be quoted by a petty Bengal civil servant. The Queen will possibly make amends for this gentleman’s forgetfulness.” “You were in all this dreadful campaign, then?” asked she eagerly. “Through the whole of it. Held an independent command; got four times wounded: this was the last.” And he laid bare a fearful cicatrice that almost surrounded his right arm above the wrist. “Refused the Bath.” “Refused it?” “Why not? What object is it to me to be Sir Harry? Besides, a man who holds opinions such as mine, should accept no court favours. Colonel Calvert is a sufficient title.” “And you are a colonel already?” “I was a major-general a month ago--local rank, of course. But why am I led to talk of these things? May I see the girls? Will they like to see me?” “For that I can answer. But are your minutes not counted? These despatches?” “I have thought of all that This sword-cut has left it terrible ‘tic’ behind it, and travelling disposes to it, so that I have telegraphed for leave to send my despatches forward by Hassan, my Persian fellow, and rest myself here for a day or two. I know you’ll not let me die un-watched, uncared for. I have not forgotten all the tender care you once bestowed upon me.” She knew not what to reply. Was she to tell him that the old green chamber, with its little stair into the garden, was still at his service? Was she to say, “Your old welcome awaits you there,” or did she dread his presence amongst them, and even fear what reception the girls would extend to him?