“Would that it were so!” burst in Sybella. “A great orator said t' other day in the House, that coalitions were fatal; Englishmen never liked them. He only spoke of those alliances where parties agree to merge their differences and unite for some common object; but far more perilous are the coalitions where nations combine, the very contest that they wage being a field to evoke ancient rivalries and smouldering jealousies. I 'd rather see our little army alone, with its face to the foe and its back to the sea, than I 'd read of our entrance into Sebastopol side by side with the legions of France.” The passionate enthusiasm of the moment had carried her away, and she grew pale and heart-sick at her unwonted boldness as she finished. “I hope Mr. Dunn may be able to benefit by your opinions on strategy,” said Lady Augusta, as she rose from the table. “What was it Lady Augusta said?” cried Lord Glengariff, as she left the room. “I scarcely heard her aright, my Lord,” said Sybella, whose face was now crimson. It was the first moment in her life in which dependence had exposed her to insult, and she could not collect her faculties, or know what to do. “These things,” said Lord Glengariff, pushing the despatches contemptuously away, “add nothing to our knowledge. That writer in the 'Times' gives us everything we want to know, and gives it better too. Send them back to Dunn, and ascertain, if you can, when we are likely to see him. I want him to come down to the bay; he ought to see the harbor and the coast. Manage this, Miss Kellett,--not from me, of course, but in your own way,--and let me know.” Lord Glengariff now left the room, and Sybella was once more deep in the despatches. Dry and guarded as they were,--formal, with all the stamp of official accuracy,--they yet told of the greatest and grandest struggle of our age. It was a true war of Titans, with the whole world for spectators. The splendid heroism of our army seemed even eclipsed by the unbroken endurance of daily hardship,--that stern and uncomplaining courage that faced death in cold blood, and marched to the fatal trenches with the steadfast tramp of a forlorn hope. “No conscript soldiers ever bore themselves thus,” cried she, in ecstasy. “These are the traits of personal gallantry, not the disciplined bravery that comes of the serried file and the roll of the drum.” With all her anxieties for his fate, she gloried to think “dear Jack” was there,--that he was bearing his share of their hardships, and reaping his share of their glory. And oh! if she could but read mention of his name; if she could hear of him quoted for some act of gallantry, or, better still, some trait of humanity and kindness,--that he had rescued a wounded comrade, or succored some poor maimed and forlorn enemy!