I returned to my room and made a glass of negus for my guest, affecting in my manners a degree of hilarity which was at vast variance with my real feelings. The Captain was too weak to sit up long; he had been confined to his bed ever since the night he had first seen me, owing to a cold he caught on his return to his lodgings, and, therefore, could not come to his appointment: he had frequently requested his landlord to oblige him by going to the house where we were to have met, and to speak to me, whom he described; but this as well as other favours was denied. All his money was gone, and he had tottered down that night as a last resource, to see me. I exerted myself to make him happy: the landlady brought him a basin of gruel, of which he partook: his bed was prepared, and--what was never done before for him--warmed with her pan by her own hands. Every thing was attention, and my grateful friend was made as comfortable as one suffering under a consuming disease could be. He remained in bed from this night; and I could see that every day he became more feeble: the doctor who attended him informed me that his lungs were diseased, and that his case was out of the pale of remedy. I did every thing I could for him; and he felt great relief, he said, from my company; for I always kept conversation free from melancholy. About a week after this last confinement of the Captain to his bed, the landlord offered to have warm curtains put up; this was desirable, and as they were already in the house, he sent for an upholsterer to hang them. I was sitting by the bed of the invalid when this upholsterer came in, along with the landlord, carrying the curtains. The Captain regarded him attentively; then whispering he said to me, “I think I know that man: ask him what is his name.” I did so, and the upholsterer answered that his name was Thomas Hanson. I beckoned to him, and he approached the bed. The Captain then fixed his eyes upon him, and in a weak voice said, “Tom, do you not know me?” “No, Sir,” was the reply. “Ah!” returned the Captain, “I am now so altered that nobody knows me;” and then burst into a flood of tears. The man gazed on the sufferer intensely: he turned to me in evident embarrassment, and whispered, “I don’t recollect the gentleman, indeed, Sir.” A short pause took place, and the Captain wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “Were you not in the **th regiment while they served in Spain?” said he. “Yes, Sir; I served with them there, and since they came home too. I have been pensioned, and now, thank God! I’m in a good way of business, on my own account. I assure you, Sir, I do not recollect your face.” “No, no!” rejoined the Captain, “my face and all--all are changed. I’m very unlike the Captain now, Tom, that led you up the hill at Talavera, and saved your life at Salamanca.”