* * * * * When the great mutiny was finally stamped out, Mick Sullivan’s chum got himself sent back to the 30th Light, down in the Madras Presidency. He delivered his poor comrade’s dying message to the regiment, and told the tale of his heroic death; and how Outram had publicly announced that, had he survived, he would have recommended Mick for the Victoria Cross. From colonel to band-boy, the 30th Light was deeply moved by the recital. The regiment subscribed to a man to place a memorial-stone over Mick’s grave in the cemetery inside the Lucknow Residency, where he had been laid among the heroes of the siege. The quarter-master took temporary charge of the “goold and jools” which were Mick’s legacy to “the Crayture,” and the colonel himself wrote home instructions that every effort should be made to find the little woman and have her cared for. * * * * * One morning, about a month later, the colonel and his wife were taking their early canter on the Bangalore _maidan_. As they crossed the high road from down country, they noticed, tramping through the deep dust, a white woman with a child in her arms. She dragged herself wearily; the pale fagged face, and the wistful upward look at them as she trudged by, moved the good heart of the colonel’s wife. “Speak to her,” she said to her husband; “she is a stranger, and forlorn.” “Where are you bound for, my good woman?” asked the colonel; “have you come far?” The woman set down the child, a well-grown boy, who looked about two years old, and with a long sigh of weariness replied-- “I’ve come from England, sir, and I am on my way to the 30th Light Dragoons to find my husband.” “That little chap is quite too heavy for you to carry. What is your name, young one?” The urchin sprang to “attention,” saluted with rigid accuracy, and gravely replied-- “Mick Tullivan, Tir!” “Good God!” whispered the colonel’s wife; “it’s Sullivan’s widow--it’s ‘the Crayture’ herself. Gallop to barracks for a gharry, and while you are gone, I will tell her. God pity her!” And the kind lady was out of the saddle, and had the boy in her arms, and her tears were raining on his face, as the colonel rode away on his errand. When the gharry arrived “the Crayture” was sitting by the wayside, the skirt of her dress drawn over her face, her head on the shoulder of the colonel’s wife, her boy gripped tight in her arms.