who esteemed Tom Diamond. This gentleman
insisted on giving him a dinner at the military
club. And the captain, always gratified at this
sort of attention, not for himself, but because it
reflected honour on the steadiness and constancy
of the service to old friends, came home to
announce the news.

At the same time he made many humble
apologies to his dear girls, but he hoped they would
not mind his going, for Hodgson was a true
old friend, &c.

The captain dined with his true old friend, and
had a delightful evening. As he limped into the
club, where none but gentlemen of the service
were allowed to be entertained as guests, he was
received by the waiters with all the honours of
war. His lameness brought him many marks of
distinction. He felt not a little proud of the
grandeur and magnificence of the establishment;
for, with that old delicacy, he had long ago
withdrawn from all military associations, as
having no title to them. He called himself, with
modest disparagement, " Feather-bed soldier."
It was a happy night with Hodgson, who had
"gone on" and held by the service, and the two
talked together over Colonel Cameron, and
Trevelyan, and the duel, and the time that General
Shortall came down for the inspection and found
out that " Tom" had his sword fastened on with
a bit of red tape, some one having stolen
"Tom's" belt.

It was a charming night, and they talked over
how " Tom" should join that club forthwith,
and how he ought " by rights," in spite of all
the stuff about feather-bed soldiers, to have been
in it centuries ago. And he came home, limping
slowly, as was his wont, and very much pleased.
Next morning, at breakfast, he would tell his
"girls," in his own dramatic way, of the whole
scene, and of all that Hodgson had said and
told. The captain had a key of his own, and
let himself in, shutting the door to very softly,
and taking off his shoes with infinite precautions
for fear of disturbing the hard-worked
woman who slept in a sort of sentry-box at the
end of the passage. " How she lives there and
has her health, the creature," the captain often
said, compassionately, " the Lord only knows!"
But, at the same time, he gave her many
a half-crown to make up for this want of
accommodation. He then stole up-stairs softly,
went to the drawing-room where his light was
left for him, and entered, still softly. The
captain was shocked and ashamed to find that it
was two o'clock. The light was burning, and
there was some one sitting there, but who it
was it was hard to say, for it was a girl with
her head bent forward on the table, and pressed
against a book. Some little noise from the
handle of the door roused her.

"My goodness!" said the captain, starting
back, as a worn, tearful, miserable face was lifted
to him. " My dear, darling girl!" he went on,
limping up to the table, " what is all this?
What has happened?"

The heated face, which was almost marked
with crimson streaks from weeping, looked at
him wildly a moment. Then she rose, ran over
to put her arms about him, hide her face against
his chest, and said, " Oh, uncle, uncle! I am
very wretched."

The captain soothed her like a mother; she
was sobbing hysterically.

"Now, now, now" he said, " don't; be a
good child. All shall come right in time" (with
wonderful instinct he knew what was wrong);
"leave it to me — to old Tom. He'll set his
old head at work; come, sit down there, pet.
Tell me about it, and don't be afraid. I'm
your friend against all the world."

"Oh, uncle," she went on, "what have I done
to him, that he should treat me in this way? I
never injured him. It is so cruel; all because
I—I——"

"I know, dear," said the captain, still soothing;
"because you like him. It isn't a crime.
There's nothing to be ashamed of in it. There
hasn't been a fine girl in the world that didn't
like a man that was worthy of her, or didn't
find one either. Never fear, dear. I'll set the
business right; leave it to me."

"No, no," said she, still hiding her face; "not
for the world."

"Yes, for the world, dear," said the captain;
"at least, we'll talk of it in the morning. This
is a dreadful hour to be sitting up to, wearing
out those nice eyes writing so! Ah, I'd like to
see that journal of yours! Though as to sitting
up, I needn't speak; I ought to be ashamed of
myself, and have more sense. But poor Hodgson
was so kind. He stood to me long ago,
and I cannot help it. Come now, dear, bed's
the place; and if the old fogie's head of mine
can think on anything, you may depend on Tom
Diamond."

Next morning, when Mr. Tillotson was
wearily struggling through papers—for the
dealing with which he ought to have had a
shovel and a cart—the captain came limping in,
clean, bright, and whiskers curled with the old
French irons, and glistening in the sunshine.
The bishop's hat was in his hand. He sat
down and talked to his friend for some time a
little restlessly. In truth, he did not know how
to begin.

"My dear Tillotson," he said, at last, " I
was dining with old Charley Hodgson—a real
good one of the old set — at the fine club they
have got now, and after talking over our old
stories till two o'clock, as old fellows always
will, I came home. When I got to the
drawing-room and thought to find every soul
in bed — what do you think? There was a
poor girl sitting up with her face down on
the table, and I declare to you, Tillotson,
before Heaven, with her eyes worn out of
her head with sobbing and crying — I was near
crying myself, like an old fogie as I am — and
tier face all drawn and flushed; the creature!"

The other started and cast down his eyes.
He knew at once whom the captain alluded
to.

"It's no use calling this or hiding that," said
the captain, gloomily. " I am no good at that