"Don’t you know? Can’t you guess? Little ’Grey-eyes’ and I are engaged—engaged! What d’you think of that, old tongue-tied? I’ve felt it would come ever since we met her in the steamer coming out, and the last few days have done the trick. Isn’t it glorious? She goes home to-morrow, worse luck! but I couldn’t let her go without telling her, and we’re to be spliced as soon as ever I get back to England. You’ll have to do ’best man’. You will, won’t you?" It was dark. I stuttered out how pleased I was, and he, too excited to suspect anything, dashed downstairs again, singing lustily. "D’you think you could manage to take me along with you, sir, when you land in charge of those guns?" Mr. Scarlett asked me diffidently. "I will," I told him. "We’ll land together, and have another smack at those Afghans—the treacherous brutes. We’ll go back to the old ’_B.A._’ to-morrow morning, doctor or no doctor. We can’t stay loafing round here any longer. I’m sick of being a cripple." The night air seemed to have turned cold, so we went back into our whitewashed room with its bullet marks on the wall behind my bed, and as Mr. Scarlett lighted the lamp we heard Popple Opstein whistling "Two Eyes of Grey" somewhere down the slope towards the beach. "That used to be your tune," Mr. Scarlett said as he closed the shutters; "d’you remember, sir—a while back? It used to get on my nerves at times; that it did!"