'By Jove, she has her ensign half hoisted!' exclaimed a voice among the thousands of whom she formed a unit. Goring had remarked this through his double field-glass, yet said nothing of it to his fair companion, lest she might be unnecessarily alarmed. 'What does it mean?' she asked him more than once, ere he replied, unwillingly, 'It means that there has been a death on board.' 'A death!' she said faintly, as she recalled the loving tenor of Dalton's last farewell letter to her, written like Jerry's to Bella on the night before Coomassie was entered, and of the fatal telegram that told of his serious wounds. 'A death, Goring?' she repeated, with a wild expression in her beautiful eyes, while her cheek grew snowy white as she watched the slowly approaching ship, which was under half steam now. 'Yes, marm,' said an officious old sailor, who was regarding the stately vessel through an old, battered telescope tied round with spunyarn; 'some poor fellow has lost the number of his mess, for there is a coffin covered by a Union Jack in one of the quarter boats, as you may see for yourself, marm.' He proffered his telescope civilly enough, but Laura shrank closer to the side of Goring, who remained silent, for he too had his own thoughts. She could not look; her eyes felt sightless, and her poor heart seemed to die within her with the most fearful forebodings. The bands of several regiments stationed at Portsmouth were now filling the sunny air with music, and the cheers of the Riflemen, clustering like bees along the sides of the mighty ship, were responding to the united voices of thousands on the shore, giving those hearty and joyous shouts that come from British throats and British lungs alone; and Laura, under all the pressure of the occasion and her own terrible thoughts, was on the point of fainting, as the transport came slowly abreast of the sea-wall, when Goring threw an arm round her, and exclaimed, 'Thank God, there is Dalton--there is dear old Tony at last!' 'Where--oh, where?' asked Laura, in a breathless voice. 'At the back of the poop,' he replied, lifting Netty aloft on his shoulder, as they now saw an officer--Dalton, indeed--with a face white as his tropical helmet, with the pallor that comes of suffering and much loss of blood--waving his handkerchief to them in recognition, for the ship was very close inshore, and Laura was soon to learn that the melancholy freight in the quarter-boat was the body of a poor sergeant who died off the Lizard, and whose widow--believing herself yet a wife--was awaiting him on the pier with a babe at her breast--the babe his eyes would never look upon. In a few minutes more the steam was blowing off, and Goring with those in his care joined the stream of the privileged few, who poured along the gangways on board. 'God is very merciful,' murmured Laura, as she laid her face on Dalton's breast, heedless of spectators. 'He has given you back to me----'