"Well!" cried he, boldly, as he stood up, and
threw his head haughtily back, "the fellow who
led Calvert's Horse—that was the name my
irregulars were known by—might have won
distinction enough to he quoted by a petty Bengal
civil servant. The Queen will possibly make
amends for this gentleman's forgetfulness."

"You were in all this dreadful campaign,
then?" asked she, eagerly.

"Through the whole of it. Held an independent
command; got four times wounded; this
was the last." And he laid bare a fearful
cicatrice that almost surrounded his right arm above
the wrist. "Refused the Bath."

"Refused it?"

"Why not. What object is it to me to be
Sir Harry? Besides, a man who holds opinions
such as mine, should accept no court favours.
Colonel Calvert is a sufficient title."

"And you are a colonel already?"

"I was a major-general a month ago—local
rank, of course. But why am I led to talk of
these things? May I see the girls? Will they
like to see me?"

"For that I can answer. But are your
minutes not counted? These despatches?"

"I have thought of all that. This sword-cut
has left a terrible ' tic' behind it, and travelling
disposes to it, so that I have telegraphed for
leave to send my despatches forward by Hassan,
my Persian fellow, and rest myself here for a
day or two. I know you'll not let me die
unwatched, uncared for. I have not forgotten all
the tender care you once bestowed upon me."

She knew not what to reply. Was she to tell
him that the old green chamber, with its little
stair into the garden, was still at his service?
Was she to say, "Your old welcome awaits you
there," or did she dread his presence amongst
them, and even fear what reception the girls
would extend to him?

"Not," added he, hastily, "that I am to
inflict you with a sick man's company again. I
only beg for leave to come out of a morning
when I feel well enough. This inn here is very
comfortable, and though I am glad to see Onofrio
does not recognise me, he will soon learn my
ways enough to suit me. Meanwhile, may I go
back with you, or do you think you ought to
prepare them for the visit of so formidable a
personage?"

"Oh, I think you may come at once," said
she, laughingly, but very far from feeling assured
at the same time.

"All the better. I have some baubles here
that I want to deposit in more suitable hands
than mine. You know that we irregulars had
more looting than our comrades, and I believe
that I was more fortunate in this way than
many others." As he spoke, he hastily opened
and shut again several jewel-cases, but giving
her time to glance—no more than glance—at
the glittering objects they contained. "By the
way," said he, taking from one of them a costly
brooch of pearls, "this is the sort of thing they
fasten a shawl with," and he gallantly placed it
in her shawl as he spoke.

"Oh, my dear Colonel Calvert!"

"Pray do not call me colonel. I am Harry
Calvert for you, just as I used to be. Besides,
I wish for nothing that may remind me of my
late life and all its terrible excitements. I am
a soldier tired, very tired of war's alarms, and
very eager for peace in its best of all significations.
Shall we go?"

"By all means. I was only thinking that
you must reconcile yourself not to return
tonight, and rough it how best you can at the
Villa."

"Let me once see my portmanteau in the
corner of my old green room, and my pipe where
it used to hang beside my watch over the
chimney, and I'll not believe that I have passed
the last two terrible years but in a dream. You
could not fancy how I attach myself to that spot,
but I'll give you a proof. I have given orders
to my agent to buy the villa. Yes; you'll wake
some fine morning and find me to be your
landlord."

It was thus they talked away, rambling from
one theme to the other, till they had gone a
considerable way across the lake, when once more
Calvert recurred to the strange circumstance
that his name should never have come before
them in any shape since his departure.

"I ought to tell you," said she, in some
confusion, "that I once did make an effort to obtain
tidings of you. I wrote to your cousin, Miss
Sophia."

"You wrote to her!" burst he in, sternly;
"and what answer did you get?"

"There it is," said she, drawing forth the
letter, and giving it to him.

"'No claim! no right!' murmured he, as he
re-read the lines; "'the name of the person she
had dared to inquire after;' and you never
suspected the secret of all this indignant anger?"

"How could I? What was it?"

"One of the oldest and vulgarest of all
passions—jealousy! Sophy had heard that I was
attached to your niece. Some good-natured
gossip went so far as to say we were privately
married. My old uncle, who only about once in
a quarter of a century cares what his family are
doing, wrote me a very insulting letter, reminding
me of the year-long benefits he had
bestowed upon me, and, at the close, categorically
demanded 'Are you married to her?' I wrote
back four words, 'I wish I was,' and there
ended all our intercourse. Since I have won
certain distinctions, however, I have heard that he
wants to make submission, and has even hinted
to my lawyer a hope that the name of Calvert is
not to be severed from the old estate of Rocksley
Manor; but there will be time enough to tell
you about all these things. What did your
nieces say to that note of Sophy's?"

"Nothing. They never saw it. Never knew
I wrote to her."

"Most discreetly done on your part. I cannot
say how much I value the judgment you
exercised on this occasion."

The old lady set much store by such praise,
and grew rather prolix about all the