Chester. Milly and the child were sent off to the
hills on the first outbreak. Thus freed from
anxiety on their account, he was able to devote
all his time and energies to his soldiers, and he
did it nobly. Many were the wild words of cursing
he stayed, as he bent his face over the dying,
and spoke of the home the sick had quitted,
and the Heaven they were nearing; spoke
words such as soldiers love, of father or mother;
caught from parched lips the last few sentences
of love, and held many a fevered hand till the
last hard struggle was over.

Then came a slackening in the disease.
Strong men no longer died in a few hours, but
lived for days; recoveries became more common;
medicine began to assert itself; the survivors
no longer sat in moody silence, awaiting who
should be the next; but ate, and drank, and set
about their duties like good soldiers, and good
men.

At length came a day when no more cases were
reported, and on the same evening an “order”
was published, thanking Captain Chester for
the efficient and soldierlike way in which
he had discharged his duties during the trying
time just past. “The colonel commanding,” it
concluded, “has never witnessed such entire
relinquishment of self, and such a truly noble
disposition to perform every duty that could possibly
tend to alleviate the sufferings of his men;
and he takes this opportunity of publicly thanking
that officer in the name of himself and of the
regiment. It is further the intention of the
colonel commanding to submit Captain Chester’s
name to the commander-in-chief, in order
that his excellency may have an opportunity of
rewarding his services as they deserve.”

“Too late!” sighed Frank wearily, as he read
the order. “It has come too late, I fear!” And
then he went on writing his daily epistle to
Milly.

When he went out to post the letter, he felt
hot and feverish, his bones seemed full of aches
and pains, and his head was heavy and dull.
“So different to what I was in the old regiment!”
thought Frank.

However, he posted his letter, and then
went back to the deserted bungalow and turned
in.

All that night he tossed about. What little
sleep he got, was broken with dreams in
which his own little Milly, was ever present,
and yet never near him. Then he woke up
with a start, and cried out her name, and the
affrighted “punkah coolie” roused up, and
pulled away wildly at the rope, and the sleepy
old “bearer” crept up to the door, and sat
cowering when he heard the strange rambling
talk of his master, and shook his head, and slunk
back again to his mat, and wished his mistress
were there.

Next morning Frank sent off for the doctor.

“How long have you had this on you?” asked
the doctor.

“I haven’t been quite the thing for a week;
but last night it came on worse, and my head
felt as though it would split.”

“I’ll send you a draught that shall set you
to-rights again.”

But the draught did him no good. He lay
gazing at Milly’s picture over the door, and
never spoke all day. The servants sat outside
in a group, terror-stricken at their master’s
silence, and whispering long stories of former
“sahibs,” and how they had been taken when
their “mem-sahibs” were far away in the Hills,
and how Fate must be accomplished, whether it
were white man or black.

But in the evening, when it was near post-time,
Frank called out to the “bearer” to bring
him the writing-block, and, sitting up in his
bed, wrote a few lines to Milly. His hand
shook so, that he could hardly hold the pen;
but he applied himself to the task, and, steadying
himself on his elbows, covered the sheet
with all the bits of chit-chat his poor aching
head could remember, and, sealing it up, gave
it to the bearer to post.

In the middle of the night the bearer
was startled by a loud cry. Running in to his
master, he found him sitting up in bed, tossing
his arms, and calling out for Milly. The
old man was so frightened that he bolted off
for the doctor, and told him his master was gone
mad, and would be dead if he did not come
at once.

“I must telegraph for his wife,” said the
doctor, when he saw him. Sitting down, he
wrote a note to the telegraph office, giving it
to the bearer, and bidding him run as though
his life depended on it.

Then he set to work on Frank, cutting away
all the old curls, and wrapping up his poor
head in towels, with a great lump of ice on the
top of them.

At the sound of the noon-day gun, Chester
started up and, clutching the doctor’s hand,
asked fiercely:

“Where is my wife? What have you done
with my wife? Where is Milly? Oh, Milly,
Milly, don’t forget your husband!” Then he
sank back again exhausted, and closing his eyes
fell into a heavy slumber.

At four o’clock the doctor went out, and
telegraphed to the hotel at the foot of the
Hills, asking if Mrs. Chester had left. In
half an hour the answer came back, that she
had left, and would arrive about nine that
evening.

Then he went back to Frank.

He was awake; his face was flushed, and his
pulse hammered like a steam engine; but his
eyes were not so wild, and his voice, though
low, was calm and collected.

“Is she coming?” he whispered. “When
will she be here? Don’t let it be too late,
doctor.”

“She will be here soon; she left some hours
ago.”

“I couldn’t die happy without her. We
have been very happy together, doctor, very
happy. It’s hard to part like this; it’s very,
very hard.”

The doctor tried to reassure him, but in vain.