Upon the infant Damocles, Nurse Beaton, rugged, snow-capped volcano, lavished the tender love of a mother; and in him Major John Decies, deep-running still water, took the interest of a father. The which was the better for the infant Damocles in that his real father had no interest to take and no love to lavish. He frankly disliked the child—the outward and visible sign, the daily reminder of the cruel loss he so deeply felt and fiercely resented. Yet, strangely enough, he would not send the child home. Relations who could receive it he had none, and he declined to be beholden to its great-uncle, General Sir Gerald Seymour Stukeley, and its aunt Yvette Stukeley, in spite of the warmest invitations from the one and earnest entreaties from the other. Nurse Beaton fed, tended, clothed and nursed the baby by day; a worshipping ayah wheeled him abroad, and, by night, slept beside his cot; a devoted sepoy-orderly from the regiment guarded his cavalcade, and, when permitted, proudly bore him in his arms. Major John Decies visited him frequently, watched and waited, waited and watched, and, though not a youth, “thought long, long thoughts”. He also frequently laid his views and theories on paternal duties before Colonel de Warrenne, until pointedly asked by that officer whether he had no duties of his own which might claim his valuable time. Years rolled by, after the incorrigible habit of years, and the infant Damocles grew and developed into a remarkably sturdy, healthy, intelligent boy, as cheerful, fearless, impudent, and irrepressible as the heart of the Major could desire—and with a much larger vocabulary than any one could desire, for a baby. On the fifth anniversary of his birthday he received a matutinal call from Major Decies, who was returning from his daily visit to the Civil Hospital. The Major bore a birthday present and a very anxious, undecided mind. “Good morrow, gentle Damocles,” he remarked, entering the big verandah adown which the chubby boy pranced gleefully to meet his beloved friend, shouting a welcome, and brandishing a sword designed, and largely constructed, by himself from a cleaning-rod, a tobacco-tin lid, a piece of wood, card-board and wire. “Thalaam, Major Thahib,” he said, flinging himself bodily upon that gentleman. “I thaw cook cut a fowl’s froat vis morning. It squorked boofly.” “Did it? Alas, that I missed those pleasing-er-squorks,” replied the Major, and added: “This is thy natal day, my son. Thou art a man of five.” “I’m a debble. I’m a _norful_ little debble,” corrected Damocles, cheerfully and with conviction. “Incidentally. But you are five also,” persisted the senior man. “It’s my birfday to-day,” observed the junior. “I just said so.” “_That_ you didn’t, Major Thahib. This is a thword. Father’s charger’s got an over-weach. Jumping. He says it’s a dam-nuithanth.” “Oh, that’s a sword, is it? And ‘Fire’ has got an over-reach. And it’s a qualified nuisance, is it?”