This was said with feeling; more than I had ever seen Bulstrode manifest before, and more than I had given him credit for possessing. Anneke coloured a little; but there was no tremor in the beautiful hand, that held a highly-wrought little tea-pot suspended over a cup, at that very moment. “We shall soon meet again, Harry,” Herman Mordaunt remarked, in a tone of strong affection; “for, our party will not be a week behind you. Remember, we are to be _good_ neighbours, as well as neighbours; and, if the mountain will not come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain.” “Which means, Mr. Bulstrode,” said Mary Wallace, with one of her sweet smiles, and one that was as open and natural as childhood itself, “that you are Mahomet, and we are the mountain. Ladies can neither travel, with comfort, in a wilderness, nor visit a camp, with propriety, if they would.” “They tell me, I shall not be in a camp at all,” answered the soldier; “but in good, comfortable log-barracks, that have been built for us by the battalion we relieve. I am not without hopes, they will be such as even ladies will not disdain to use, on an emergency. There ought to be no Mahomet, and no mountain, between such old and intimate friends.” The conversation then turned on the plans and expectations of the respective parties; and the usual promises were made, of being sociable and good neighbours, as had just been suggested. Herman Mordaunt evidently wished to consider Bulstrode as one of his family; a feeling that might excuse itself to the world, on the score of consanguinity; but which, it was easy enough, for me, to see, had its origin in a very different cause. When Bulstrode rose to take his leave, I wished myself away, on account of the exhibition of concern it produced; while the desire to watch the effect on Anneke, would have kept me rooted to the floor, even had it been proper that I should retire. Bulstrode was more affected than I could have thought possible. He took one of Herman Mordaunt's hands into his own, and pressed it warmly, for some little time, before he could speak at all. “God only knows what this summer is to see, and whether we are ever to meet again, or not,” he then said, “but, come what may, the past, the _happy past_, is so much gained from the commonplace. If you never hear of me again, my dear kinsman, my letters to England will give you a better account of my gratitude, than anything I can say in words. They have been written as your kindnesses have been bestowed; and they faithfully pourtray the feelings to which your hospitality and friendship have given rise. In a possible event, I have requested that every one of them may be sent to America, for your special perusal--” “Nay, my dear Harry, this is foreboding the very worst,” interrupted Herman Mordaunt, dashing a tear from his eye, “and is making a very short separation, a more serious matter than one ought--”