But the little one will not be forgotten. When the flowers are blooming in the spring--when the voices of children are ringing in the street--when the strain of music comes plaintively up the noisy alley--when the sun is bright in heaven--when the fire is crackling on the hearth--then will her lost cherub stretch its little arms in Paradise, and call its mother home. As Mary made way for the poor afflicted woman, who for an instant withdrew from her mouth the coarse handkerchief that could not stifle her sobs, she recognised Blanche’s former maid, poor Gingham. Yes, it was Mrs. Blacke, following her only child, her only treasure, her only consolation, to the grave. Poor thing! her sin had been too heavy for her to bear; with her husband’s example daily before her eyes, what wonder that she strove to stifle her conscience in intoxication? Then came “from bad to worse, from worse to worst of all”; the child was neglected, and a rickety, sickly infant at all times, soon pined away, and sickened and died. The mother was well-nigh maddened with the thought that it _might_ have been saved. Never will she forgive herself for that one night when she left it alone for two hours, and coming back, found the fever had taken it. Never will she drive from her mind the little convulsed limbs, and the rolling eyes that looked upward, ever upward, and never recognised her again. And now her home is desolate, her husband is raving in the hospital, and her child is in that pauper-coffin which she is following to the grave. Mary Delaval, do you still think you are the most miserable being on the face of the earth? CHAPTER XX DAWN IN THE EAST MILITARY CRITICISMS--GARE LES FEMMES!--THE MAJOR AT HOME--A BITTER PILL--“I’M A-WEARY”--VERY NEAR THE BORDER--DAY DAWNS IN THE EAST--THE BETTER ANGEL--A BRAIN FEVER--A SICK-NURSE IN SPURS “’Gad, I thought the Major was very crusty this morning,” remarked Cornet Capon, as he removed a large cigar from his lips, and watched its fragrant volume curling away into the summer air. “How he gave it you, Clank, about leading the column so fast, and about riding that old trooper instead of your own charger! I can’t help thinking D’Orville’s altered somehow; used to be such a cheery fellow.” “_You_ needn’t talk, my boy,” retorted Captain Clank to his subaltern; “I heard him tell you that if you would attend a little more to your _covering_, and less to your _overalls_, you would be quite as ornamental, and a good deal more useful to the regiment; but I agree with you--he _is_ altered. He’s like all the rest of ’em--a capital fellow till you get him in command, and then he’s crotchety and cantankerous and devilish disagreeable. Give us another weed.”