My moustache was beginning to bud, and the short down was carefully dyed by the aid of an old toothbrush and a small square of india-ink, presented to me by a _sweetheart_. Every soldier must have a sweetheart: mine was old enough to be my mother, but I did not care, because I had now dropped all my country diffidence, and grown "cheeky," as my comrades designated my impudence. She courted _me_, and frequently came to barracks for the purpose of inviting me to her house, where she carried on a very respectable business as a milliner and dressmaker. Strange fancy, perhaps, but she professed to be _very_ fond of soldiers: she confessed to having had _three_ or _four_ soldier sweethearts. I met her in the pit of the theatre, in company with another _milliner_, to whom one of my comrades, who was with me, had been paying more than ordinary attention. I may as well confess that I did not care a rap for my girl ("Old Dorcas" my comrades used to call her, when chaffing me); but she was very kind to me at times. In fact, her house was my home on all occasions when I could be spared from my active duties. Every Sunday, Denis Mulroony (my comrade) and I took tea, and sometimes supper, with his Nelly and my Dorcas. We always had rum in our teas, plenty of ale to our suppers, and more rum _after_ supper. At last the time came for us to part. Having learnt that my father was a well-to-do farmer, and that I had fairish expectations, "Old Dorcas" conceived the idea of purchasing my discharge, and offered to lodge the money (30 pounds) at once, if I would "marry her _first_." Bah! I never thought of _marrying_--not I; indeed, I had never given her any cause to harbour such an unnatural design upon me--a mere boy. I was not partial to soldiering, and glad as I would have been for my discharge, I sickened at the idea of selling myself. Only fancy my going home again, with a woman fastened to me!--what would my father say? I shuddered as I thought of the heavy pig-whip, of which I had more than a slight acquaintance. I had been led into this dilemma by Denis Mulroony, who was eight years my senior. "Denny," said I, after parting with the two women at the barrack-gate, one night at watch-setting, "what shall I say to `Old Dorcas,' when I go again?" "Arrah, now, don't be talking, you great mahoney. Can't you get the money first, and marry her when it is _more convanient_? Shure she'll give it you, no fear; and if she'll not part wid the whole, no doubt she'll be after giving you the half of it." We were at that time under orders to march; in fact, the route had come for a change of quarters, and I had promised to see her again on the following night, when, as good luck would have it, Denny was on guard, and therefore could not go with me. I went, saw, and told her that I was too young to marry, and that I must decline her generous offer to purchase my freedom. This she took all in good part, and I left her.