His little stroke of humor pleased the Colonel, and, further, he felt slightly ashamed of the language he had been using. The Second-in-Command worried him again, and the two sat talking far into the night. Next day but one, there was a Commanding Officer's parade, and the Colonel harangued the White Hussars vigorously. The pith of his speech was that, since the Drum-Horse in his old age had proved himself capable of cutting up the Whole Regiment, he should return to his post of pride at the head of the band, BUT the Regiment were a set of ruffians with bad consciences. The White Hussars shouted, and threw everything movable about them into the air, and when the parade was over, they cheered the Colonel till they couldn't speak. No cheers were put up for Lieutenant Hogan-Yale, who smiled very sweetly in the background. Said the Second-in-Command to the Colonel, unofficially:--“These little things ensure popularity, and do not the least affect discipline.” “But I went back on my word,” said the Colonel. “Never mind,” said the Second-in-Command. “The White Hussars will follow you anywhere from to-day. Regiment's are just like women. They will do anything for trinketry.” A week later, Hogan-Yale received an extraordinary letter from some one who signed himself “Secretary Charity and Zeal, 3709, E. C.,” and asked for “the return of our skeleton which we have reason to believe is in your possession.” “Who the deuce is this lunatic who trades in bones?” said Hogan-Yale. “Beg your pardon, Sir,” said the Band-Sergeant, “but the skeleton is with me, an' I'll return it if you'll pay the carriage into the Civil Lines. There's a coffin with it, Sir.” Hogan-Yale smiled and handed two rupees to the Band-Sergeant, saying:--“Write the date on the skull, will you?” If you doubt this story, and know where to go, you can see the date on the skeleton. But don't mention the matter to the White Hussars. I happen to know something about it, because I prepared the Drum-Horse for his resurrection. He did not take kindly to the skeleton at all. THE BRONCKHORST DIVORCE-CASE. In the daytime, when she moved about me, In the night, when she was sleeping at my side,-- I was wearied, I was wearied of her presence. Day by day and night by night I grew to hate her-- Would to God that she or I had died! Confessions. There was a man called Bronckhorst--a three-cornered, middle-aged man in the Army--gray as a badger, and, some people said, with a touch of country-blood in him. That, however, cannot be proved. Mrs. Bronckhorst was not exactly young, though fifteen years younger than her husband. She was a large, pale, quiet woman, with heavy eyelids, over weak eyes, and hair that turned red or yellow as the lights fell on it.