"He has three weeks' leave--urgent private affairs. I am sure to see him in town, though I shall only pass through," remarked Wilton, and relapsed into silence, scarcely hearing the arguments of his companion, who proved to demonstration that Wilton would be a fool to make any exchange, except, indeed, he could get a chance of returning to his old friends of the second battalion. Ralph Wilton was looking thinner and graver than formerly, and there was an expression of anxiety and irritation in his keen bold eyes. While the colonel argued, an orderly approached with letters, which his officer took, and, glancing at the addresses, handed two or three to Wilton. "This is from Moncrief," said he, opening an envelope directed in a remarkably stiff, legible hand--"forwarded from Athgarven. He is annoyed at missing me, and--" Here he stopped, and read on, with knit brows and fixed attention, then let the hand which held the letter drop, and stood wrapped in thought. "No bad news?" asked the colonel. "Yes--no," he returned, absently. "My dear colonel, I must leave you to-day. I must go up to town by this evening's mail." "This is very sudden. Can't you manage a day or two more? Why, you have only been three weeks with us." A few words from Wilton convinced his friend and host that, although indisposed to give a reason for his sudden move, its necessity was imperative. The passage in Major Moncrief's letter which had moved Wilton was as follows: "Town is very full; the club brimming over; dinners going a-begging--and, talking of dinners, I met our Monkscleugh acquaintance, Lady Fergusson, in Regent Street, yesterday. She was in deep mourning; it seems that unfortunate son and heir died about a month ago. Sir Peter is in great grief; the establishment at Brosedale broken up, and the whole family _en route_ for Germany. I wonder what has become of the pretty lassie you picked up in the snow! I was always afraid of your getting into some mess with her; but you have more sense than I gave you credit for."