His little blue eyes glanced up from the side of his nose, twinkling. His mouth stretched from white whisker to white whisker in a smile of righteous benevolence. But Uncle Victor's eyes slunk away as if he were ashamed of himself. It was Uncle Victor who had paid the two hundred pounds. II. "Supposing there's something the matter with him, will he still have to go?" "I don't see why you should suppose there's anything the matter with him," her mother said. "Is it likely your Uncle Victor would be paying all that money to send him out if he wasn't fit to go?" It didn't seem likely that Victor would have done anything of the sort; any more than Uncle Edward would have let Aunt Bella give him an overcoat lined with black jennet. They were waiting for Roddy to come back from the doctor's. Before Uncle Victor left Morfe he had made Roddy promise that for Mamma's satisfaction he would go and be overhauled. And it was as if he had said "You'll see then how much need there is to worry." You might have kept on hoping that something would happen to prevent Roddy's going but for the size and solidity and expensiveness of the preparations. You might forget that his passage was booked for the first Saturday in March, that to-day was the first Wednesday, that Victor's two hundred pounds had been paid to Jem Alderson's account at the bank in Montreal, and still the black jennet lining of the overcoat shouted at you that nothing _could_ stop Roddy's going now. Uncle Victor might be reckless, but Uncle Edward and Aunt Bella took no risks. Unless, after all, Dr. Kendal stopped it--if he said Roddy mustn't go. She could hear Roddy's feet coming back. They sounded like Mark's feet on the flagged path outside. He came into the room quickly. His eyes shone, he looked pleased and excited. Mamma stirred in her chair. "That's a bright face. We needn't ask if you've got your passport," she said. He looked at her, a light, unresting look. "How right you are," he said. "And wise." "Well, I didn't suppose there was much the matter with you." "There isn't." He went to the bookshelf where he kept his drawing-blocks. "I wouldn't sit down and draw if I were you. There isn't time." "There'll be less after Saturday." He sat down and began to draw. He was as absorbed and happy as if none of them had ever heard of Canada. He chanted: "'Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volleyed and thundered.'" The pencil moved excitedly. Volumes of smoke curled and rolled and writhed on the left-hand side of the sheet. The guns of Balaclava. "'Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell, Rode the six hundred.'" A rush of hoofs and heads and lifted blades on the right hand. The horses and swords of the Light Brigade. "'Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die'"-- "You ought to be a soldier, Roddy, like Mark, not a farmer."