And there sat the once-gay, bright, and heedless Rose Trecarrel, the belle of the ball, of the hunting-meet, of the race-course, and the garrison, with a choking sensation in her throat, and a clamorous fear in her heart, Denzil's hot, throbbing hand often clasped in one of hers, while the other strayed caressingly over his once-thick hair, or what remained of it, for by order of Doctor C----, she had shorn it short--shorter even than the regimental pattern; and so would she sit, watching the winning young fellow, who loved her so well--he, whose figure might have served a sculptor for an Antinous in its perfection of form, wasting away before her, with a terrible certainty that God's hand could alone stay the event; and whom she had but lately seen in all the full roundness of youth and health, with a face animated by a very different expression from that now shown by the hollow, wan, and hectic-like mask which lay listlessly on the pillow--listlessly save when his eyes met hers, and then they filled or grew moist with tenderness and gratitude, emotions that were not unmixed by a fear that the pest, if such it was, that preyed on him might fasten next on her. Then _who_ should watch over Rose, as she had watched over him, like a sister or a mother? His head, in consequence of the blow he had received from the pistol-butt of the fallen Afghan--the wretch he had sought to succour in the Khyber Pass--was doubtless the seat of some secret injury; for not unfrequently he placed his hand thereon and sighed heavily, while a dimness would overspread his sight, and there came over him a faintness from which Rose, by the use of a fan and some cooling essences--the Khanum had plenty of them--would seek to revive him, and again his loving eyes would look into hers. "Ah, you know me again," she would say, in a low soft voice, and with a smile of affected cheerfulness; "you are to be spared to me, after all, Denzil--we shall live and die together." "Nay--not die together, Rose: don't say die together, darling." "Why?" "That would be too early--for you, at least." "You deem me less prepared than yourself, Denzil. Perhaps I am; yet what have I to live for now?" "Do not talk so, Rose." "God will take pity on us, Denzil, and will make you well and whole yet," she would reply, and kiss the aching head that rested on her kind and tender bosom; and with all the young girl's love, something of the emotion almost of maternal care and protection stole into her heart, as she watched him thus; he clung to her so, and was so gentle and so helpless. "If--if--after this" (he did not say, "after I am gone," lest he should pain her even by words)--"if, Rose, after all this, you should ever meet my sister--my dear little Sybil--you will tell her of me--talk to her about me, talk of all I endured, and be a sister to her, for my sake--won't you, Rose?" "I will, Denzil--I shall, please God."