“I know not, sir, and I care not! Sir John has done nothing to merit such treatment. ’Tis a base shame, and that’s about all that can be said. But he’ll rise to the top—small fear! When the need arises, he will be the man whom all will turn unto.” “Jack, shall we see Roy?” inquired Molly. Jack had little doubt that Roy would look in. Everything was to be done in a terrific hurry, and he had come himself to say good-bye there and then; but Roy would certainly appear. A few minutes later he called Polly away into the girls’ little boudoir, and said approvingly— “That is a brave Polly! No tears and no wailings. ’Tis as should be.” “Dear Jack, I know well how glad you are to be going, and I would not hold you back.” Polly spoke courageously, though she looked white. “And when I come again—a battered soldier, maybe, with some part of me missing—— Nay, I did not mean to make things harder for you, Polly. I was but jesting.” Polly had difficulty in controlling her shudder. “Come, come, that was nothing; that was but a foolish jest. You will bid me God-speed, I know; and you will think of us. Roy is frantic to be off. Polly, no letter from Verdun?” She shook her head. “If I were Denham—kept there all these long years in a purposeless captivity—and, it may be, never a letter from Polly to cheer him——” Polly looked sadly at her brother. “I have not writ to him lately,” she said. “I cannot tell how to write. What should I do? I have none but you to advise me, and you, too, will now be gone. Tell me what I should do, Jack?” “Write again; write often. One letter among many may get to him.” “But if he should no longer care? If he should by now have forgot me?” “He is not that sort. Trust him, Polly; be sure he is trusting you.” Something of a gleam came to her face. “You think that? You think I may trust him yet, and not be over bold? It is so long—over five years!—and no letter from him of later date than the summer of 1806. May he not have forgot?” “He will not forget. Roy is convinced on that point.” “But does Roy know? Jack, sometimes I wonder—if indeed Captain Ivor loves me still, as once he did—I wonder why does he not ask me to go out to him there? If he asked me, I would go—I would indeed! And he has never from the first said any such word; and I cannot say it. It is not for me to offer to go; but sure, if he wished it, he might send some words—by some private hand——” Jack was silent—thinking. “And there is that French girl—whom Roy is so fond of—always with them as one of themselves—always near Captain Ivor.” “But trust him still, Polly dear,” urged Jack. “I cannot know, neither can you, how things are yet awhile; only I do truly believe that Ivor is no man to change, or to be fickle in his likings. Whether you write or do not write, trust him still.” (_To be continued._) FOOTNOTES: [1] Caroline Fox became later the wife of Sir William Napier, historian of the Peninsular War.