Truly it was a queer world, and there must be something wrong somewhere! But it was all beyond him, and he could only brood and wonder. Their New Year was ushered in on the night of the twelfth with great illuminations, much ringing of church bells, and a solemn service in the cathedral--by a terrific bombardment of their fellow Christians on the hill-side, and two furious sorties, which effected nothing beyond an increase in the tally of broken men and in the cart-loads of red coffins creaking away to the cemetery. "Absolutely useless," acknowledged Greski, when his mother and Tatia released him from their warm embraces on his return. "But the Chief thinks it does the men good to go out occasionally after all their dirty work on the new bastions." CHAPTER LXI WEARY WAITING "Nothing yet," said Sir Denzil to Eager, on his twentieth anxious call after further news of the boys. "I am surprised Denzil has not written. But so many things may happen out there. His letter may have gone astray. There may be difficulty in communicating with Sebastopol. He may be wounded himself. He may be dead. We can do nothing but wait. I will send you word the moment I have any news. Miss Gracie well?" "Quite well, sir, but sorely troubled about the boys." "Ay, ay! That is the woman's part--to sit at home and nurse her fears." "No news, Charlie?" asked the Little Lady hopelessly, from her chair by the fire. "No news yet, dear. Sir Denzil promises to send round the moment he gets anything." "I'm beginning to fear they're all lying dead in that horrible Crimea. This waiting, waiting, waiting, is terrible." "Yes, it's hard work, the hardest work in the world. But we can only wait and hope, dear. Whatever is is best, and we cannot alter it." It was a weary time for all of them, and all over Britain and France and Russia the same black cloud lay heavily. The only ones who were happy were those whose warriors had come home maimed, so long as the maiming was not absolute and irretrievable. For such were at all events safe from further harm. So the slow dark days dragged on until at length one night, when Eager had just got in from his rounds and the usual fruitless call at Carne, there came the long-expected knock on the door, and Gracie ran to answer it. "Is it you, Kennet?" "Me, miss. Sir Denzil would like to see Mr. Eager." "He has got some news at last?" "Ay, some papers just come in. But I don't know what it is. Bad, I should say, from the looks of him--he was so mortal quiet." "We will come at once. Let me go alone, Charlie. You're tired out." "Not a bit of it, my dear. I feel like a hound on the scent at the word 'news.' Don't you think you'd better wait here till I bring you word?" "I can't wait," she said breathlessly. And they went along together. Sir Denzil met them with ominous impassivity.