A great change in Cyril’s fortune was at hand--a change that came upon him as an almost overwhelming blow, for it gave a new colour to his life, and made the problem of existence doubly difficult. Walking home to his lodgings one September afternoon with Mr. Dulcimer, Cyril met the village postman. ‘Any letters for me, Sparkes?’ asked the Vicar. Cyril was not curious enough to inquire about his letters. He expected no pleasant tidings. Who should write to him? He stood alone in the world, for he did not hope that his cousin would ever regard him with friendliness again. ‘No, sir, there ain’t none for you,’ replied Sparkes; ‘but there’s a letter for you, Mr. Culverhouse, from Indy.’ Kenrick had written then, after all, thought Cyril, moved at the idea. Distance and lapse of time had softened the natural bitterness of his feelings. And then and there, in deliberate defiance of the postal rules and regulations, Sparkes handed the curate a thin miserable-looking letter, in a black-edged envelope, addressed by a strange hand. The Vicar and Cyril both looked at it, horror-struck. ‘Your cousin has been killed,’ cried Mr. Dulcimer. Cyril felt the same apprehension. He knew no one in India except his cousin. This letter in a strange hand must bring evil tidings. He opened the envelope hurriedly, with a shaking hand, as he and Mr. Dulcimer stood side by side in the quiet country road. The Vicar read the letter over Cyril’s shoulder. Yes, it brought the news both feared. ‘SIR,--It is with deep regret that I write to inform you of the death of your cousin, Sir Kenrick Culverhouse. He was shot in a skirmish with the Burmese, which took place on the night of July 27th. They came down upon our camp unexpectedly during the night, and were repulsed with considerable loss, but unhappily your cousin, who was always reckless in exposing himself to the enemy’s fire, received a fatal shot while leading his company in close pursuit of the retreating Burmese. ‘There will, I hope, be some consolation to you, as his nearest relative, in knowing how nobly he did his duty throughout the last eighteen months, and how thoroughly he won the respect of his regiment, from the highest to the lowest. For my own part, I feel his death as a personal loss, and it will be long before I shall cease to deplore it. ‘I have the honour to be ‘Your obedient servant, ‘MALCOLM DONALDSON.’ ‘That is the colonel of his regiment,’ said the Vicar. ‘Poor Kenrick! Do you know, I had a presentiment that he would never come back to us. Hard to remember that he left us under such miserable circumstances.’ Cyril was silent for some moments, and then he said, suddenly, with intense earnestness,-- ‘Would to God that I rather than he had drawn the lot of death!’