"Ah! very sorry," said the new comer, glancing up vaguely, as if to see how far it was safe to go in reference to the past; then returning to his breakfast, proceeded with the perfect inconsequence of a man--not selfish, but occupied with himself, and saying whatever came uppermost. "Very odd thing--the very day I got your letter something came into my head: There's old Sutherland, thought I, got a couple of nice daughters--honest girls--mother a very pretty woman--no doubt they take after her. Then came your letter: 'pon my life, it brought the tears to my eyes!" This downright stroke the Colonel bore with sufficient fortitude. He held his breath for a moment, and said nothing--then hastened to interest himself in the progress of the stranger's breakfast, which was going on in the most satisfactory manner. Never guest did more honour to hospitality. He repeated that he could fancy himself once more in the Kitmudgharee station, but for the blazing fire, and the Frith haddocks, which were perfection; and repeated over again, with emphasis, "The happiest time of my life!" "Before then I was a young fellow of ambition," said Sir John, "waiting to get on in society, and all that sort of rubbish. If this confounded fortune had come then, there would have been some comfort in it. Never felt myself a man till I went to India--always kept trying to find out what this one and the other thought of me. Got clear of all that rubbish among your bungalows. Ah! these were the days! But I say, Sutherland, guess how I came here?" "In a postchaise; I saw you, but could not remember for my life who you were," said the Colonel. "Eh? Ah! couldn't remember me?--humph!" said Sir John, with momentary mortification; "odd that--I should have known you anywhere. Postchaise from the boat--detestable boat!--rocks like a tub, and smells like an oilshop--came down from London by sea. And, now that I think of it, do you know, I'm mighty sorry about poor Musgrave; a fox-hunter, you know--nothing but a fox-hunter; but a very good fellow--gave me a helping hand myself, when I was young and stood in need of one--what have you made of the poor boy?" "I am sorry to say he has made something of himself which I don't like," said the Colonel. "Poor fellow! he was too high-spirited, and impatient, and proud, to wait for our influence, and what we should do for him: he's gone off to London, I fear, to enlist. He's a famous young fellow--I grudge the lad putting on a private soldier's uniform even for a day."