rather than political criticism just then, and not the rudest judge of British policy would have cared to speak a word against the ceremony of the day. And when, after long waiting, the royal carriage came, with the pretty, smiling little matronly figure bowing and swaying amidst the ringing thunders of the world’s greatest city, and the bands rolled out their ‘God Save the Queen’ as she passed them one after another, one happy, happy onlooker looked up at one war-hardened old veteran through tears. ‘Upon my word,’ said the General, with a grimace which was really much less humorous than he meant it to be, and in a voice which was hardly as steady as he would have liked to have it--‘upon my word, Irene, I’d give twopence to be in your shoes at this moment.’ For one of the scarlet ants in the far distance, on the green tablecloth of the turf, was just then advancing towards the little figure on the dais, and an instant or two later the Queen was stooping to pin the bronze badge of honour to the coat of Polson Jervase. THE END. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of VC -- A Chronicle of Castle Barfield and of the Crimea, by David Christie Murray