"In St. James's Street," replied the man, giving at the same time the number of the house. To St. James's Street proceeded Charles, found the house in which the colonel occupied rooms, and saw the landlady. Colonel Cockburn was at Bath: had gone to stay with a brother who was lying there ill. "What a dreadful bother!" thought Charles. "Cockburn must have a whole regiment of brothers!" And he stood in indecision. "Will the colonel be back soon?" inquired he. "I don't know at all," was the landlady's answer. "Should he be detained in Bath, he may not come back before October. The colonel always leaves London the end of July. Sometimes he leaves earlier than that." "What on earth am I to do?" cried Charles, half aloud, his vivid hopes evaporating considerably. "My business with him was urgent." "Could you write to him?" suggested the landlady. "I suppose I must--if you have his address. But I ought to see him." She took an envelope from the mantelpiece, on which was written an address in the Crescent, Bath. Charles copied it down, and went out. He stood a moment, considering what he should do. The day was so fine and the town so full of life, that to go off to that pokey old southern suburb seemed a sin and a shame. So he decided to make a day of it, and began with the Royal Academy. Time slips away in the most wonderful manner when sight-seeing, and the day was over before Charles thought it half through. When he reached home, it was past nine. The children were in bed; his mother also had gone to bed with headache; Edina and Alice were sewing by lamplight. Alice was at some fancy work; Edina was mending a torn pinafore: one of a batch that required repairing. While taking his supper, Charles told them of his ill-luck in regard to Colonel Cockburn. And when the tray went away, he got paper and ink and began to write to him. "He is sure to have heard of our misfortunes--don't you think so, Edina? I suppose I need only just allude to them." "Of course he has heard of them," broke in Alice, resentfully. "All the world must have heard of them." Charley went on writing. The first letter did not please him; and when it was nearly completed he tore it up and began another. "It is always difficult to know what to say in this kind of application: and I don't think I am much of a letter-writer," observed he, candidly. Alice grew tired, nodded over her embroidery, and at length said good-night and went upstairs. Edina sent the servant to bed, and stitched on at another pinafore. "I think that will do," said Charley: and he read the letter aloud. "It will do very well," acquiesced Edina. "But, Charley, I foresee all sorts of difficulties. To begin with, I am not at all sure that you are eligible for a commission: I fancy you ought to go first of all to Sandhurst or Woolwich." "Not a bit of it," replied Charley, full of confidence. "What other difficulties do you foresee, Edina?" "I wish you would give up the idea."