Alison had promised to wait for him a year--and well he knew that, if left to herself, she would have waited for several. Would she be true to that promise? Could he but find her now, he would have no compunction in carrying her off, whatever her father might say, though it would seem that the brave old Scottish days of Lochinvar and Jock of Hazeldean are over and for ever. The corps was gone now, and he felt dull and lonely with the dépôt, which would probably soon be taken from the camp to Chatham or elsewhere, and the little duty he had of it consisted chiefly of drilling and training green hands, and taking them through a weary course of musketry, while his thoughts were elsewhere, and he soon began to feel that, if he did not soon learn tidings of Alison, he would 'leave no stone unturned' to get away from Aldershot--to get away to fight the Ashantees or any other folks; and the next moment he would be thankful that he was left behind to search for her. To search for her--but where? Ay, where? He was soon to receive a terrible rouser! One day he visited Mrs. Trelawney to inform her that the transport with Dalton and the regiment on board had been spoken with by a vessel some sixty miles westward of Ushant, when he found her in the act of writing a note to himself, and looking somewhat nervous and disturbed in manner. She received him with unusual kindness, and with a kind of sympathy in her manner that puzzled him. After a little pause, while eyeing him closely, she said, 'You have seen this morning's paper, I presume?' 'Yes,' said he, and his heart seemed to flutter, as it was evident that she had seen something therein that he had not. 'Did you not see the announcement of----' 'Of what?' he asked, impetuously, as Mrs. Trelawney paused, her lips apparently unable to tell to what she referred, and with tremulous hands she took up a morning paper and searched for a particular paragraph or passage, while Goring felt his heart sickening, as he never doubted it referred to the marriage of Alison, who, he feared, had yielded to her father's iron influence at last. 'Read this--but nerve yourself first, my dear friend,' said Mrs. Trelawney, in her sweet low voice. 'It is confidently asserted that the English yacht reported as having been sunk some weeks ago in a midnight collision with the lugger _Le Chien Noir_, of Ostend, off the mouth of the Maese, is Lord Cadbury's beautiful brigantine the _Firefly_, so well known at the Cowes Regattas. Sir Ranald Cheyne of Essilmont and suite were on board.' He grew deadly pale and reeled, but, recovering, read the fatal paragraph again and again, till the letters seemed photographed on his brain, and he was scarcely conscious. Mrs. Dalton, as we must call her now, was in tears, and had taken his left hand caressingly between her own.