"I perceived that you were an officer, though out of uniform, and—and——" "You don’t take every officer for a sad rake, I hope?" said I, laughing. "Nay, nay, sir; the scarlet coat is very dear to me!" "Your father, perhaps, was in the army?" "My poor father was a man of peace, and a man after God’s own heart, sir. No, no; you mistake me," she replied, with an air of annoyance and wounded pride; "but you belong, I presume, to the cavalry?" "Yes," said I, as her manner puzzled me more and more. "The lancers?" she asked, impetuously. "Yes, the lancers." I could see, even in the twilight, that her colour deepened, while a painful sigh escaped her. "Do you know any one in my corps?" "Yes—no; that is, I never saw it; but I did know a—a——" Who, or what she knew, I was not destined to learn, for, just at that moment, the postman passed with a lantern glimmering in his hand, a bag slung over his back. "A letter. You have one for me, have you not?" she asked, in a clear and piercing voice, while holding forth her hands. "No, miss, I am sorry to say," stammered the man, touching his cap, and passing abruptly on; "better luck in the morning, I hope." "No letter, Nurse Goldsworthy, no letter yet," she muttered. "How cruel, how very cruel! or, nursie dear, is this but the way of the world—the world that he has lived in? Oh, it is cold—cold and selfish!" and, pressing her hands upon her breast, she tottered against the iron gate, and then a violent fit of coughing ensued. "My good woman," said I, "the chill evening air is unsuited to such a cough as your young lady seems afflicted with." "Yes, sir, yes, I know it," replied the nurse, while supporting the girl with one hand, she closed and locked the iron gate with the other; and, kissing her forehead the while, said, "Patience, my poor suffering angel, thou wilt get a letter in the morning I tell thee." "Pray tell me if I can assist you. I am Captain Norcliff, of the —th Lancers; do please say if I can be of service?" I urged. "Oh, no, sir, you cannot serve me in that which afflicts me most," replied the girl, weeping; "but a thousand thanks to you; and now, good evening." "Good evening," I replied, and rode away, feeling strangely puzzled and interested in this girl, by her beauty, grace, and singular manner. At the village inn, the signboard of which, I may mention by the way, actually bears the head of King Ethelbert, whose spirit seems somehow to hover still about his Anglo-Saxon _ham_ of the Reculvers, I drew up on pretence of obtaining a light for my cigar, but in reality to make some inquiry concerning the pretty enigma who dwelt in the cottage on the Margate-road. Just as I reined in, a man on horseback passed me at full speed, and from his figure, seat, and dress, I could have sworn that he was—Berkeley! And he was riding in the direction of Chillingham Park, too.