There were two letters from Gracie to read, one to himself and one to Jack, both so bright and cheerful and full of hope that they could not by any possibility have imagined what it cost her to write like that, when her heart was so full of fears for them. She told Jim of Paddy's admirable behaviour, and of long delightful rides with Meg and Sir George on the flats. And she told Jack of visits to Sir Denzil, and how the Rimmer cottage was still shut up and empty. But from neither letter could the most discriminating judge have drawn any clue as to the writer's heart tending more to the one of them than to the other. There were also letters from Charles Eager, with comments on the course of the war and the feeling at home, and fervent hopes for their safety and that of George Herapath--who lay out there in the cemetery on the cold hill-side. And there was also one from Lord Deseret to Jim, which contained, among other things, the somewhat surprising news that Mme Beteta had gone to St. Petersburg to fill an engagement there. Then Colonel Carron came in and gave him hearty welcome, and wanted all his experiences over again. "And how's my horse?" asked Jim, as soon as he got the chance. "I was thinking of him all the way up from the harbour. The road is thick with the poor beasts who have died there." "He's first-rate. I've been riding him myself to keep him in condition, I shall be quite sorry to part with him. Deseret knew what he was about, my boy, when he chose him for you." He was very pleased with Jim's eulogiums on Captain Jolly, and forthwith decided that Jack must make the next trip with him. So they had a very pleasant time in the banked-up tent, in spite of the dreariness of things outside. But all too soon it came to an end, and Jim had to go off to his own Spartan quarters, where the heartiness of his greeting almost made up for the lack of everything else. He settled down into the rut of camp life again, but found it all very slow and dull and dirty. There was little doing. It was as much as they could do simply to live. The dull routine of the trenches went on. The batteries spat shot and shell at the town at intervals, and Russian shot and shell came singing back in reply, and sometimes did a little damage. And at times the camps would be wakened by furious fusillades in the advanced French lines, when the Russians enlivened matters with a sortie. But these alarms were spared the English, on account of the bad ground in their front, which did not lend itself to such matters. More than once, too, they all turned out _en masse_ in the middle of the night--and always on the bitterest nights--to repel attacks in the rear which never came off. And every day there went down to Balaclava the long slow procession of sick men, and to the cemetery another procession of those who had died in the night.