a twang of home; but he hates water--drench him thoroughly and you put him to the proof; albeit he never fails, yet, like Mark Tapley, he _does_ deserve credit for being _jolly_ under such adverse circumstances. Look at that encampment--a detached position, in which two companies of a British regiment, with a handful of Hottentots, are stationed to hold in check some thousands of savages: the old story--outnumbered a hundred to one, and wresting laurels even from such fearful odds. Look at one of the heroes--the only one visible indeed--as he paces to and fro to keep himself warm. A short beat truly, for he is within shot of yonder hill, and the Kaffirs have muskets as well as “assagais.” No shelter or sentry-box is there here, and our warrior at twelvepence a day has “reversed arms” to keep his firelock dry, and covers his person as well as he can with a much-patched weather-worn grey great-coat, once spruce and smart, of the regimental pattern, but now scarcely distinguishable as a uniform. To and fro he walks--wet, weary, hungry, and liable to be shot at a moment’s notice. He has not slept in a bed for months, and has almost forgotten the taste of pure water, not to mention beer; yet is there a charm in soldiering, and through it all the man is contented and cheerful--even happy. A slight movement in his rear makes him turn half-round; between him and his comrades stands a tent somewhat less uncomfortable-looking than the rest, and from beneath its folds comes out a hand, followed by a young, bronzed face, which we recognise as Cousin Charlie’s ere the whole figure emerges from its shelter and gives itself a hearty shake and stretch. It is indeed Charlie, “growed out of knowledge,” as Mrs. Gamp says, and with his moustaches visibly and tangibly increased to a very warlike volume. The weather is clearing, as in that country it often does towards sundown; and Charlie, like an old campaigner, is easing the tent-ropes, already strained with wet. “I wish I knew the orders,” says the young lancer to some one inside, “or how I’m to get back to head-quarters--not but what you fellows have treated me like an alderman.” “You should have been here yesterday, my boy,” said a voice from within, apparently between the puffs of a short, wheezing pipe. “We only finished the biscuit this morning, and I could have given you a mouthful of brandy from the bottom of my flask--it is dry enough now, at all events. The baccy ’ll soon be done too, and we shall be floored altogether if we stay here much longer.” “Why the whole front don’t advance I can’t think,” replied Charlie, with the ready criticism of a young soldier. “If they’d only let us get _at_ these black beggars, we’d astonish them!” “Heaven knows,” answered the voice, evidently getting drowsy, “our fellows are all tired of waiting----By Jove,” he added, brightening up in an instant, “here comes ‘Old Swipes’; I’ll lay my life we shall be engaged before