"What is it, Major dear?... Let's get the pillow right.... There, that's better! Yes, dear; what is it?" "I've got my marching orders, Rosey. I shall be all right. Shan't be sorry ... when it's over.... Rosey girl, I want you to do something for me.... Is my watch there, with the keys?" "Yes, dear; the two little keys." "The little one opens my desk ... with the brass corners.... Yes, that one.... Open the top flap, and look in the little left-hand drawer. Got it?" "Yes; you want the letters out? There's only one packet." "That's the lot. Read what's written on them." "Only 'Emily, 1837.'" "Quite right! That was your aunt, you know--your father's sister. Don't cry, darling. Nothing to cry about! I'm only an old chap. There, there!" Rosalind sat down again by the bed, keeping the packet of letters in her hand. Presently the old man, who had closed his eyes as though dozing, opened them and said: "Have you put them on the fire?" "No. Was I to?" "That was what I meant. I thought I said so.... Yes; pop 'em on." Rosalind went to the fireside and stood hesitating, till the old man repeated his last words; then threw the love-letters of sixty years ago in a good hot place in the burning coal. A flare, and they were white ash trying to escape from a valley of burning rocks; then even that was free to rise. Maybe the only one who ever read them would be soon--would be a mere attenuated ash, at least, as far as what lay on that bed went, so pale and evanescent even now. "A fool of a boy, Rosey dear," said the old voice, as she took her place by the bed again. "Just a fool of a boy, to keep them all those years. And _she_ married to another fellow, and a great-grandmother. Ah, well!... don't you cry about it, Rosey.... All done now!" She may have heard him wrong, for his voice went to a whisper. She wondered at the way the cough was sparing him. Then she thought he was falling asleep again; but presently he spoke. "I shall do very well now.... Nothing but a little rest ... that's all I want now. Only there's something I wanted to say about ... about...." "About Sally?" Rosalind guessed quickly, and certainly. "Ah ... about the baby. _Your_ baby, Rosey.... That man that was her father ... he's on my mind...." "Oh me, forget him, dear--forget him! Leave him to God!" Rosalind repeated a phrase used twenty years ago by herself in answer to the old soldier's first uncontrollable outburst of anger against the man who had made her his victim. His voice rose again above a whisper as he answered: "I heard you say so, dear child ... then ... that time. You were right, and I was wrong. But what I've said--many a time, God forgive me!--that I prayed he was in hell. I would be glad now to think I had not said it." "Don't think of it. Oh, my dear, don't think of it! You never meant it...." "Ah, but I did, though; and would again, mind you, Rosey! Only--not now! Better let him go, for Sallykin's sake.... The child's the puzzle of it...."