Now from this paper I hope many will adopt valuable hints. If they do, they will be rewarded with obtaining purer blood in their veins, stronger nerves, and a happier frame of body and mind altogether. MERLE’S CRUSADE. BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY, Author of “Aunt Diana,” “For Lilias,” etc. CHAPTER XX. ROLF’S PENITENCE. From a child, that story of Casabianca had fascinated me, and I could see it fascinated Rolf. “How I do like that fellow Cassy——what do you call him?” he exclaimed, enthusiastically, when I had finished. “I call that plucky, and no mistake, to stick to the burning ship. What a brave man he would have made if he had lived!” “Yes, indeed; but he lived long enough to do a man’s work in the world—faithful until death. ‘Faithful in little, faithful in much,’ Rolf. Casabianca would never have disobeyed his mother, or thought he knew best, would he?” “No, Fenny,” in a contrite voice, and sidling up to me again. “I am afraid you can never be a soldier, dear!” “What do you mean?”—sitting up erect in bed, with his beautiful eyes quite glaring at me in the twilight. “I mean to be a soldier, I tell you, and use father’s sword! I shall be Colonel Markham, too, one of these days, unless I am killed in battle.” “You cannot be a soldier unless you learn to obey, Rolf; you cannot rule your men until you have submitted to rule yourself. Officers are gentlemen, and gentlemen are never cowards; and I call it cowardly, Rolf—quite a mean trick—to creep into the nursery in my absence. Honour should have kept you from crossing the threshold.” Now Rolf could not endure to be called a coward, so he lost his temper, and, I am sorry to say, called me a nasty, spiteful old cat, “which you are Fenny, you know you are, and a great deal worse!” And the next moment he had thrown a rough pair of arms round my neck, his penitence inflicting on me excruciating pain. “There, there, never mind”—hugging me—“I don’t mean it. You are a dear old thing, Fenny, and I mean to marry you when I grow up. You are such a plain young woman, as mother says, that no one else would ask you, so I will.” “Do you think I could marry a coward, Rolf?” “There you go again”—in a vexed voice—“but I shall never be a coward any more; I mean to be a brave boy, like Cassy—what do you call him? I mean to mind mother, and not forget; and I will throw my cannon into the sea to-morrow, though I am so fond of it, and Mr. Rossiter (Walter I call him, but he does not mind) gave it to me. It cost a lot—indeed, it did, Fenny—but, all the same, it shall be drownded dead.”