"He's just the same as ever," thought Jack. "Well, I hope he'll get through this all right. There are the girls, and Aunt Mabel—it would be dreadful if anything happened!" And with this reflection Fenleigh J. turned over and fell asleep.

Before daybreak next morning the column was once more on the move, crossing a large waste of sand and gravel, relieved here and there by stretches of black rock; while, bordering the plain on either side, were ranges of hills, which gradually approached each other until, in the distance, they formed the pass through which ran the track leading to the wells of Abu Klea.

The march was now beginning to tell upon the camels, which, weakened by fatigue and short allowance of forage, fell down in large numbers through sheer exhaustion, throwing the transport into great confusion.

Shortly before mid-day the force halted at the foot of a steep slope for the usual morning meal of tea and bully beef.

"I shan't be sorry when we get to those wells," said Jack, sipping at the lid of his mess-tin; "I've been parched with thirst ever since we left Gakdul. I wonder it we shall reach them this evening!"

"I don't reckon it's much further," answered Joe Crouch. "I heard the Nineteenth are going on ahead to water their horses. Look! they're just off."

Jack watched the Hussars as they disappeared over the brow of the hill.

"Lucky beggars!" he muttered, and lying down upon his bed he pulled his helmet over his eyes, and prepared for a quiet snooze before the order should be given to mount.

He had been dozing, and was in the dreamy stage between waking and sleeping, when his attention was attracted by a conversation which was taking place in his immediate vicinity. A few yards away, Lieutenant Lawson was sitting on the ground rearranging the folds of his putties, and talking to another subaltern.

"I shouldn't have brought a thing like that with me," the latter was saying; "you might lose it. Any old silver one's good enough for this job, especially if you get bowled over, and some villain picks your pockets."

"Well, I hadn't another," answered Lawson; "and, after all, it didn't cost me much. I knew a fellow at Melchester, called Fosberton, an awful young ass. He got into debt, and was hard pushed to raise the wind. He wanted me to buy this. I was rather sorry for the chap, so I gave him five pounds for it, and told him he could have it back if he chose to refund the money; but he left the town soon after that, and I've never heard from him since. Hallo! What's up now?"

A couple of horsemen were galloping down the slope, and a few minutes later the command was passed back from the front,—

"Fall in! Examine arms and ammunition!"

The men sprang forward to the row of piled arms, and then, like an electric current, the report passed from one to another—the enemy was in sight!

"Cast loose one packet of your ammunition," said the commander of the company.

Jack's fingers twitched with excitement as he pulled off the string of the familiar little brown paper parcel, and dropped the ten cartridges into his pouch. It was the real thing now, and no mistake!

Moving forward in line of columns, the force ascended the slope, and after one more brief halt, while further reconnaissances were being made, began to advance across the level stretch beyond, from which a good view was obtained of the distant valley of Abu Klea, with the steep hills rising on either side, and opening out at the entrance of the pass.

"There they are!"

Far away, on the dark, rocky eminences, crowds of tiny, white-robed figures could be clearly distinguished moving and gesticulating in an excited manner.

Steadily the force advanced until, when within a comparatively short distance of the mouth of the valley, the word for "close order" was given. The camels were driven forward into a solid mass in rear of the leading company as it halted; the men dismounted, and knee-lashed their steeds.

There was not much time for looking about, for the order was immediately given to build a zareba; and while some men were set to work to cut down brushwood, Jack and his comrades were told off to gather stones for constructing a breastwork.

"Look alive, my lads!" said Sergeant Sparks, "and get whatever you can. Hallo!" he added; "they've begun, have they?"

Jack had heard something like the sound of the swift flight of a swallow far overhead, but he did not understand its significance until, a moment later, the sound was repeated, and on the ground in front of him there suddenly appeared a mark, as though some one had struck the sand with the point of an invisible stick, leaving behind a short, deep groove, and causing a handful of dust to spring into the air. Far away on the distant hillside was a tiny puff of smoke, and as he looked the faint pop of the rifle reached his ear. Then the truth dawned on him: this was his baptism of fire—a long-range fire, to be sure, but none the less deadly if the bullet found its billet!

He caught up a fragment of rock, and carried it to where the wall was to be constructed. Men were hurrying to and fro all around him, and yet suddenly he seemed to feel himself alone, the sole mark for the enemy's fire; again that z—st overhead, and a cold chill ran down his back. He shut his teeth, and, with a careless air, strode off for a fresh load. He had not gone twenty yards when another shot ricochetted off a stone, and flew up into the air with a shrill chirrup. Jack winced and shivered. It was no good, however well he might conceal the fact from others—the fear of death was on him; it was impossible to deceive his own heart. A fresh terror now seized him, coupled with a sense of shame. He was the fellow who had always expressed a wish to be a soldier, and go on active service; and now, before the first feeble spitting of the enemy's fire, all his courage was ebbing away. What if his comrades should notice that his limbs trembled and his voice was shaky? What if, when the advance was made, his nerve should fail him altogether, and he should turn to run?

With dogged energy he pursued his task, hardly noticing what was going on around him. For the fourth time he was approaching the zareba, when a comrade, a dozen yards in front, stumbled forward and sank down upon the ground. There was no cry, no frantic leap into the air, yet it was sufficiently horrible. Jack felt sick, and his teeth chattered; he had never before seen a man hit, and it was his first experience of the sacrifice of human flesh and blood. At the same moment, like a clap of thunder, one of the screw-guns was discharged; the droning whizz of the shell grew fainter and fainter—a pause—and then the boom of its explosion was returned in a muffled echo from the distant hillside.

A couple of men hurried forward and raised their wounded comrade. Jack turned away his eyes, and immediately they encountered a rather different spectacle.

A young subaltern, with a short brier pipe in his mouth, and without a hair on his face, was making a playful pretence of dropping a huge boulder on to the toes of the lieutenant of Jack's detachment.

"Hold the ball—no side!" said Mr. Lawson facetiously. "Look here, Mostyn, you beggar! I've just spotted a fine rock, only it's too big for one to carry. Come and help to bring it in; it's a chance for you to distinguish yourself. Look sharp! or some of the Tommies will have bagged it."

Something in this speech, and the careless, happy-go-lucky way in which it was uttered, seemed to revive Jack's spirits. Mr. Lawson recognized and spoke to him as he passed.

"Well, Fenleigh, they've begun to shake the pepper-box at us; but it'll be our turn to-morrow."

There was nothing in the remark itself, but there was something in the cheery tone and manly face of the speaker; something that brought fresh courage to the soldier's heart, and filled it with a sudden determination to emulate the example of his leader.

"Yes, sir," he answered briskly, and from that moment his fears were banished.

Slowly the construction of the zareba was completed—a low, stone wall in front, and earthen parapets and abattis of mimosa bushes on the other three sides. The enemy still continued a dropping fire, which was replied to with occasional rounds of shrapnel from the guns; but Jack saw no further casualties.

Once, during the work of collecting stones, he encountered Valentine.

"I say," remarked the latter, acknowledging his cousin's salute with a nod and a smile, "this reminds me of the time when we went up the river with the girls to Starncliff, and built up a fireplace to boil the kettle."

When darkness fell, the force was assembled within the zareba; the low breastwork was manned in double rank, every soldier lying down in his fighting place, with belts on, rifle by his side, and bayonet fixed; all lights were extinguished, and talking and smoking forbidden. In spite of the day's exertions, few men felt inclined for sleep; the drumming of tom-toms, and the occasional whistle of a bullet overhead, were not very effective as a lullaby, and served as a constant reminder of the coming struggle.

Jack settled himself into as comfortable a position as his belts and accoutrements would allow, and lay gazing up at the silent, starlit sky. What was death? and what came after? Before another night he himself might know. Lying there in perfect health, it seemed impossible to realize that before another night his life might have ended. He turned his thoughts to Brenlands. Yes; he would like to have said good-bye to Aunt Mabel, and to have had once more the assurance from her own lips that he was still "my own boy Jack!"

"I always make a mess of everything," he said to himself. "I thought I should always have had Brenlands to go to; and first of all I got chucked out of the school a year before I need have left, and then this happens about the watch. In both cases I've Raymond Fosberton to thank, in a great measure, for what happened. I'll pay him out if ever I get the chance."

The thought of his cousin brought back to his mind the recollection of the conversation he had overheard that morning. Strange that Mr. Lawson should have known Raymond! Jack wondered what the monetary transaction could have been that had been alluded to by his officer.

Gradually a sense of drowsiness crept over him, and his heavy head sank back upon the sand.

"Stand to your arms!" He clutched instinctively at the rifle by his side, and rose to his feet; the noise of the tom-toms seemed close at hand.

"They're coming!" But no; it was a false alarm. Once more the men settled down, and silence fell on the zareba. Suddenly there was a wild yell from one of the sleepers.

"What's up there?—man hit?"

"No—silly chump!—only dreaming!"

Again Jack dozed off, to be wakened, after what seemed only a moment of forgetfulness, by Joe Crouch shaking him by the shoulder. The word was once more being passed along, "Stand to your arms!" and the men lay with their hands upon their rifles. Daybreak was near, and an attack might be expected at any moment.

The sky was ghostly with the coming dawn, the air raw and cold. Jack shivered, and "wished for the day."



CHAPTER XVIII.

THE BATTLE.

"Then he heard a roaring sound, quite terrible enough to frighten the bravest man."—The Brave Tin Soldier.

Numbed with the cold, and stiff from lying so long in a cramped position, Jack and many of his comrades rose as the daylight strengthened, to stretch their legs and stamp some feeling into their feet. As they did so, however, the dropping shots of the enemy rapidly increased to a sharp fusilade; bullets whizzed overhead, or knocked up little spurts of sand and dust within the zareba; and the defenders were glad enough to once more seek the shelter of the low wall and parapet of earth. Several men were wounded, and the surgeons commenced their arduous duties—services which so often demand the exercise of the highest courage and devotion, and yet seldom meet with their due share of recognition in the records of the battlefield. Ever and anon the screw-guns thundered a reply to the popping of the distant rifle fire, and men raised their heads to watch the effect of the shrapnel, as each shot sped away on its deadly errand.

Even amid such surroundings, hunger asserted itself; and breakfast was served out, a good draught of hot tea being specially acceptable after the long exposure to the cold night air.

"When you're on active service, eat and sleep whenever you can," said Sergeant Sparks, munching away at his bully beef and biscuit. "There's never no telling when you'll get another chance."

Bands of the enemy kept appearing and disappearing in the distance; spear-heads and sword-blades flashed and glittered in the rosy morning sunlight, and the tom-toms kept up a continual thunder; but still there was no sign of an attack.

Jack longed to be doing something. He lay on the ground nervously digging pits with his fingers in the soft sand, listening to the monotonous murmur of conversation going on around him, and the constant z—st! z—st! of bullets flying over and into the zareba. Now and again he exchanged a few remarks with "Swabs" or Joe Crouch; and when at length he was told off to join a party of skirmishers, he sprang up and seized his rifle with a sigh of relief.

Moving out in extended order to the right front of the zareba, they marched forward a short distance, then halted, and lay down to fire a volley.

"Ready, at eleven hundred yards. Now, men, be steady, and take your time."

"Swabs" was in his element. He sprawled his legs wide apart, rooted his left elbow into the sand, and settled down as though he were firing for the battalion badge on the range at Melchester. Our hero was not quite so cool; his heart thumped and his fingers twitched as he adjusted the sliding bar of his back-sight.

"Aim low—present—fire!"

The rifles were discharged with a simultaneous crash.

"Good volley," said Mr. Lawson, who was kneeling, peering through his field-glass; "a bit short, I'm afraid; put your sights up to eleven-fifty."

Jack opened the breach of his rifle with a sharp jerk, and drew a long breath. For the life of him he could not have told whether his aim had been good or bad, but this much he knew, that he had fired his first shot in actual conflict.

The skirmishers retired; but still the enemy hung back, too wary to attempt a charge. At length the order was given for an advance, and preparations were accordingly made for forming a moving square. The various detachments marched out of the zareba and lay down as they took up their positions. Camels for carrying the wounded, and conveying water and reserve ammunition, were drawn up in the centre; the two guns and the Gardiner with its crew of sailors taking positions respectively within the front and rear faces of the formation.

Jack raised himself and looked round, anxious, if possible, to make out the whereabouts of his cousin. He could distinguish "Heavies," Blue-jackets, and the Guards, but Valentine and the ——sex men were stationed somewhere out of sight on the other side of the central mass of baggagers and their drivers. A short wait, and then came the order,—

"Rise up! The square will advance!"

Two deep, as in the days of the "thin red line," the men marched forward, stumbling over rocky hillocks and deep water-ruts, vainly attempting to keep unbroken their solid formation, and delayed by the slow movement of the guns and camels. The Arabs, swarming on either flank, opened a heavy fire. The flight of the bullets filled the air with a continual buzz. Men dropped right and left, and a halt was made while the wounded were placed on the cacolets. The sides of the square turned outwards, the Mounted Infantry formed its left-front corner, and Jack and his comrades were in the left face.

"Why can't we give 'em a volley?" murmured "Swabs," gazing at the feathery puffs of smoke on the distant hillside, which looked so innocent, but each of which might mean death to the spectator. No order, however, was given to fire, and the command, "Right turn—forward!" put the marksman and his comrades once more in motion.

To walk along and be shot at was not exactly the ideal warfare of his boyhood: but Jack had been "blooded" by this time, and trudged along with a set face, paying little attention to the leaden hail which swept overhead, and only wishing that something would happen to bring matters to a crisis.

A few minutes later his attention was turned to the line of skirmishers, who were moving, some little distance away, in a direction parallel to the march of the square. Suddenly, close to two of these, a couple of Arabs sprang up from behind some bushes. One rushed upon the nearest Englishman; but the latter parried the spear-thrust, and without a pause drove his bayonet through his adversary's chest. The other native turned and ran.

"Bang! bang!" went a couple of rifle shots; but the fugitive escaped untouched, and disappeared behind the brow of an adjacent knoll.

"See that, Lawson?" inquired a voice from the supernumerary rank.

"Yes," answered the subaltern, "like potting rabbits. I think I could have wiped that fellow's eye if I'd been there. The bayonet versus lance was done better."

Jack glanced round, and saw the speaker smoking a pipe, while Sergeant Sparks tramped along close behind with an approving smile upon his face, as though, if questioned, he would have made exactly the same observation himself. It was no time to be fastidious or sentimental; the callous indifference to life and death, whether real or assumed, was the thing wanted. Here, at least, were two superiors who did not seem to consider the situation very serious. The young soldier shifted his rifle to the other shoulder, and grasped the butt with a firmer grip.

For an hour, which might have been a lifetime, the square toiled on, every now and again changing direction to gain more open ground; the stretchers and cacolets constantly receiving fresh burdens. A man, two files in front of our hero, went down with a bullet through the head, and those in rear stumbled over him.

"Close up! close up, and keep that corner blocked in!"

With mouth parched with the stifling heat and dust, Jack sucked at the lukewarm dregs of his water-bottle, and wondered if the river itself would ever quench his thirst. "Swabs," his rear-rank man, kept fingering the loose cartridges in his pouch. At length the marksman's patience and sang froid seemed exhausted.

"Is this going on for ever?" he blurted out, "Ain't we ever going to give it 'em back?"

Hardly had the question been asked, when the answer was made evident in a most unmistakable manner.

Away in the grass to the left front a number of white and green flags, mounted on long poles, had been for some time visible; and at this point, as though they sprang out of the ground, swarms of Arabs suddenly made their appearance, and with headlong speed and reckless devotion charged down upon the left-front corner of the square. The scattered line of skirmishers turned and fled for their lives; while behind them, like a devouring tidal wave, the vast black mass rushed forward, their fierce shouts filling the air with a hollow roar like that of a ground sea.

Like many another young soldier, with nothing but a few hundred yards of desert between himself and death, Jack's first impulse was to raise his rifle and blaze away at random as fast as he could load; but the clear, calm voices in the supernumerary rank, and the old habit of discipline, held him in check.

"Steady, men:—Aim low—Fire a volley!"

Another moment, and the black mass with its waving banners and glittering weapons disappeared in a burst of fire and smoke, as the rifles spoke with a simultaneous crash. Again, and yet again, the vivid sheet of flame flashed from the side of the square; then, through the drifting fog, it was seen that the enemy were apparently changing the direction of their attack. Falling in scores before the terrible, scythe-like sweep of the volley firing, they swerved round the flank of the square and burst furiously upon the rear.



Rapid independent firing had succeeded the regular volleys, and Jack was in the act of using his rifle, when he became conscious of a shock and swaying movement, like the commencement of a Rugby scrimmage. He turned, and saw in a moment what had happened: by sheer weight of numbers, the overpowering rush of Arabs had forced back the thin line of "Heavies," and a fierce hand-to-hand fight was in progress. What had been the interior of the square was now covered with a confused mass of struggling combatants, dimly seen through clouds of dust and smoke. Desperate fanatics hacked and stabbed with their heavy swords and long spears, while burly giants of the Guards returned equally deadly strokes with butt and sword-bayonet. Shouts, cries, and words of command mingled in a general uproar, half-drowned in the incessant din of the firing.

How long this awful contest lasted, or exactly what happened, Jack could never clearly remember. He was conscious that the rear rank had turned about, and of a vision of "Swabs" standing like a man shooting rabbits in a cover, with his rifle at his shoulder, waiting for a chance of a clear shot. Turning again to his front, he noticed the fellow on his right working frantically at his lever, and sobbing with rage and excitement over a jammed cartridge-case. "Knock it out with your cleaning-rod!" he yelled, and thrust another round into the breach of his own weapon, determined, if this were the end, to make a hard fight of the finish.

At length the pressure seemed to grow less, and then ceased; the enemy wavered, then turned and began to slowly retreat, hesitating every now and again, even in face of the withering rifle fire, as though half-minded to renew their attack. Some turned and shook their fists, while others, with the fanatic's unconquerable spirit and reckless valour, rushed back singly, only to fall long before they reached the hated foe.

Once the threatening attitude of the retiring masses raised the cry of "Close up! they're coming again!" But a well-directed volley settled the question, and the last stragglers soon disappeared behind the distant sandhills.

Cheer on cheer rose from the square, and Jack, grounding the butt of his heated weapon, joined in with a right good will, for he had fought his first battle, and his heart throbbed with the triumph of victory.

But even now the conflict was not quite over. Arab marksmen were still lurking in the broken ground, and one of them suddenly rose into view from behind a rock. Levelling his piece he fired, and Mr. Lawson, who, revolver in hand, had stepped into a gap in the ranks, fell forward on his face, the blood gushing in a crimson torrent from his mouth. At the same moment "Greek met Greek;" for "Swabs," throwing his rifle into his shoulder fired, and the Arab sharpshooter tossed up his arms and dropped out of sight behind a rock.

Our hero fell upon his knees with something like a sob, and attempted to raise the fallen man. There was no lack of assistance. Mr. Lawson was one of those officers for whose sake men are always ready and glad to risk their lives; but the boldest among them could do nothing for him now, and a moment or so later he died in Jack's arms.

"He's gone, right enough, poor fellow!" said Captain Hamling, the commander of the company, who had hurried to the spot. "See what's in his pockets, Fenleigh. It there's anything of value, it must be taken care of, and sent to his people."

Jack did as he was ordered. A pipe, tobacco-pouch, jack-knife, and rolled bandage were the chief things he found; and he handed them to the captain. There was still the breast-pocket of the tunic, and this on examination was found to contain a small letter-case and a handsome gold watch. Jack glanced at the timepiece, and very nearly let it drop from his fingers to the ground; he knew it in a moment—the lost treasure which years ago had been stolen from Queen Mab's cupboard. This then was the thing which Raymond Fosberton had parted with for five pounds.

* * * * *

The square moved on a short distance to ground less encumbered with the slain, and then halted. The carnage was awful; dead and dying of the enemy lay in heaps where they had fallen, mown down by the deadly fire of the Martinis; while among them on the knoll where the square had been broken, and in many cases hardly recognizable from the blood and dust which covered their forms and faces, were the bodies of the Englishmen who had perished in the fray.

Orders were now given for burying the dead, collecting the arms and ammunition, and destroying the useless weapons that lay scattered about in all directions; and it was while engaged in this latter duty that Jack encountered his cousin.

"I've just been inquiring for you. Thank God, you're safe!"

In spite of all that he had just passed through, Jack's thoughts were not fixed upon the fighting or dearly-won victory.

"O Val!" he blurted out, "I've found that watch—the one that was stolen at Brenlands!"

In a few hurried sentences he described the conversation he had overheard, and the discovery of the timepiece in the dead lieutenant's pocket. The dread scene around him was for the moment forgotten in his anxiety to clear his character from the doubts which he imagined must still be entertained to a certain extent by his former friend.

"So you see, sir," he concluded, "I can now prove that I'm no thief. Raymond Fosberton stole it. I wish you'd ask Captain Hamling to show it to you, sir, and then you'd know I'm speaking the truth."

Valentine listened to this extraordinary revelation in open-eyed astonishment.

"There's no need for that," he answered—"I'll ask to see it if it's your particular wish—but, Jack, I wish you would believe that what I say is true, and that neither I nor Queen Mab ever for a moment imagined that you were the thief. You may doubt us, but we have never lost faith in you."



CHAPTER XIX.

"FOOD FOR POWDER."

"And so he lay quite still, while the shot rattled through the rushes, and gun after gun was fired over him."—The Ugly Duckling.

At last the wells were reached, and after the wants of the wounded had been supplied, Jack and his comrades got a chance of quenching their parching thirst.

Water! It was a moving sight—a crowd of men standing round a pit, at the bottom of which appeared a little puddle, which when emptied out would gradually drain in again, the spectators watching its progress with greedy eyes. Never had "Duster's" celebrated home-made ginger-beer tasted so refreshing as this muddy liquid. Jack sighed in an ecstasy of enjoyment as he gulped it down, and Joe Crouch remarked that he wished his throat was as long as a "hostridge's."

A body of three hundred men from the Guards, Heavies, and Mounted Infantry started on a return journey to the zareba to bring up the baggage, and the remainder of the force bivouacked near the wells. The night was fearfully cold; the men had nothing but the thin serge jumpers which they had worn during the heat of the day to protect them against the bitter night air. Shivering and gnawed with hunger, Jack, Joe Crouch, "Swabs," and two more men huddled together in a heap; and finding it impossible to sleep, endeavoured to stay the cravings of their empty stomachs with an occasional whiff of tobacco, those who were without pipes obtaining the loan of one from a more fortunate comrade. Jack's thoughts wandered back to Brenlands, and he smiled grimly to himself at the recollection of that first camping-out experience, and of Queen Mab's words as she promised them a supply of rugs and cushions, "Perhaps some day you won't be so well off." His mind was still full of his recent discovery. The thought that his friends must regard him as guilty of the theft, and the feeling that he could never give them proof to the contrary, had rankled in his heart more, perhaps, than he himself suspected; and now that he had at last discovered a solution to the riddle, and could prove beyond the possibility of a doubt who was the guilty party, he longed to ease his soul by talking the matter over with some one who knew the circumstances of the case. Joe Crouch was the very man.

"Joe."

"Yes."

"You remember my cousin, Raymond Fosberton?"

Joe was not in the best of humours; he was cold, and his pipe had gone out.

"Yes, I do," he grumbled. "I wish I had him here now in his white weskit and them shiny boots!" The speaker drew hard at his empty clay, which gave forth a fierce croak, as though it thoroughly approved of its owner's sentiments.

"D'you remember that time when the watch was stolen out of Miss Fenleigh's cupboard?"

"Yes; and that Fosberton said it might 'a been me as took it, and Master Valentine told me afterwards that you said that though I'd stolen some pears once, you knew I was honest. Ay, but I thought of that the morning I seen you come into the barrack-room. And then he told them as it was you 'ad done it. My eye! if I had him here now, I'd knock his face out through the back of his head!" The clay pipe literally crowed with rage.

"Well, you may be interested to hear that it was Raymond Fosberton himself who took the watch." And Jack proceeded to tell the story of his find.

"So he stole it himself, did he?" exclaimed Crouch, as the narrative concluded. "Law me! if I had him here, I'd—"

"Never mind!" interrupted the other, laughing. "I may have a chance of settling up with him myself some day."

"What shall you do when you see him?"

"Oh, I don't know!" answered Jack. "I daresay I shall have my revenge."

Joe relapsed into silence, but for some time sudden squeaks from his pipe showed that he was still meditating on the terrible vengeance which he would mete out to Raymond Fosberton, should that gentleman leave his comfortable lodgings in England and appear unexpectedly in the Bayuda Desert.

* * * * *

At length the morning came, and with it the report that the baggage-train was in sight. The news was welcome, and the work of knee-lashing and unloading the camels did not take long. The previous morning's hasty breakfast under fire had not been, by any means, a satisfying meal; and so, after a fast of nearly two days, the prospect of food made the men active enough in unpacking the stores.

Jack seized his ration of bully beef and biscuit with the fierce eagerness of a famished wolf; cold, hunger, and weary, sleepless nights had never been the lot of the lead troops campaigning on the lumber-room floor at Brenlands, or of their commanders either; nor, for the matter of that, is it usual for youthful, would-be warriors to associate such things with the triumph of a victory.

Our hero had finished his meal, and was cleaning his rifle, when he was accosted by Joe Crouch.

"I say, Mr. Fenleigh wants to see you. He's over there by the guns."

Valentine was standing talking to some of his fellow-officers. He turned away from the group as he saw his cousin approaching, and the latter halted and accorded him the customary salute.

"Look here," said the subaltern, "the general is sending dispatches back to Korti, and the officers have the opportunity of telegraphing to their friends in England. I'm going to send a message home to let them know I'm all right. Shall I put in a word for you? I'm sure," added the speaker, "that Aunt Mabel would be glad to know that you are here, and quite sate and sound after the fighting."

Jack hesitated, but there was no sign yet of the long lane turning.

"It's very good of you, sir," he answered, "but I'd rather they didn't know my whereabouts. If I live through this, and return to England, I shall still be a private soldier. I'm much obliged to you, sir, all the same."

He saluted again, and walked away. Valentine looked after the retreating figure with a queer, sad smile upon his face.

"You're a difficult fish to deal with," he muttered; "but we shall land you again some day, though I hardly know how."

Late in the afternoon the column was once more in motion, and then commenced an experience which Jack, and all those who shared in it, have probably never forgotten. At first the march was orderly, but, as the hours went by, progress became more and more difficult. Camels, half-starved and exhausted, lagged and fell, causing continual delay and confusion. The desert track having been abandoned in order to avoid possible collision with the enemy, the road lay at one time through a jungle of mimosa trees and bushes, when the disorder was increased tenfold—baggagers slipped their loads, and ranks opening out to avoid obstacles found it impossible in the dark to regain their original formation. Utterly unable to keep awake, men fell asleep as they rode, drifting out of their places, some, indeed, straying off into the darkness, never to be seen again.

Worn out, and chilled to the bone with the bitter night air, Jack clung to his saddle, dozing and waking; dreaming for an instant that Queen Mab was speaking to him, and rousing with a start as the word was passed, "Halt in front!" to allow time for the rear-guard closing up with the stragglers. At each of these pauses poor "Lamentations" knelt of his own accord; and his rider, dropping down on the sand by his side, fell into a deep sleep, to be awakened by the complaining grunts of the camels as the word, "All right in rear!" gave the signal for a fresh start.

After each stoppage it was no easy matter to get the weary animals on their legs again; and almost equally difficult in many instances to rouse their riders from the heavy slumber into which they fell the moment they stretched themselves upon the ground.

"Pass the word on, 'All right in rear!'"

"Oh, dear! I'd give a month's pay for an hour's sleep," mumbled Joe Crouch.

"Get up, you fool!" answered Jack, kicking the recumbent figure of his comrade. "D'you want to be left behind?"

On, on, through the endless darkness, now for a moment unconscious, now half awake, but always with the sense of being cold and weary, the long night march seemed to last a lifetime. Then, as sometimes happens in similar circumstances, a half-forgotten tune took possession of his tired brain, the once familiar melody of Queen Mab's hymn; and in a dreamy fashion he kept humming it over and over again, sometimes the air alone, and sometimes with snatches of the words, as they came back to his memory.

"Rest comes at length;...... The day must dawn, and darksome night be past."

His head sank forward on his breast. It was Sunday evening at Brenlands, and Helen was playing the piano. Queen Mab was standing close at his side; and yet, somehow, the whole world lay between them. "You may doubt us, but we have never lost faith in you." He turned to see who spoke, and the figures in his dream vanished, leaving only the echo of their voices in his mind.

"......Angels of light! Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night!"

The tune was still droning in his head when the first grey streaks of dawn gave warning of the approaching day, and, in the growing light, the column gradually regained its proper formation.

The line of march lay down a vast slope covered with grass and shrubs, which stretched away towards the distant Nile, as yet out of sight; and ere long word was received from the cavalry scouts that the enemy, in large numbers, were close at hand.

Once more the bullets of the sharpshooters whistled overhead; and the Arabs appearing in considerable force on the left flank, the column was halted on the summit of a low knoll, and orders were issued for the construction of a zareba.

All hands now set to work to unload the camels and build walls of saddles, biscuit-boxes, and other stores—parapets formed of almost as incongruous materials as the old domino and pocket-knife works behind which the lead warriors took shelter at Brenlands. Skirmishers were thrown out to keep down the enemy's fire; but the men were worn out, and having nothing to aim at but the feathery puffs of smoke rising amidst the distant grass and bushes, they failed to dislodge the Arab marksmen.

Jack and his comrades "lay low," glad to avail themselves of the shelter afforded by the side of the zareba. The bullets whizzed overhead, or struck the biscuit-boxes with a sharp smack, while some dropped with a sickening thud into the mass of camels. They were patient sufferers, and even when struck made no sound or attempt to move. Stretchers being constantly carried to and fro showed that the medical staff had plenty of work; but it was not until some hours later that the news leaked out among the men that Sir Herbert Stewart himself was mortally wounded.

Feeling inclined for a smoke, and having no tobacco about him, our hero asked permission to fetch a supply from the zuleetah-bag attached to his saddle. "Lamentations" acknowledged his approach with the usual grumble; but it was the last greeting he was ever destined to give his master. A bullet flew past with a sharp zip, the poor beast started and shivered, and a thin stream of blood trickled down his shoulder. Poor "Lam!" he was unclean and unsavoury, an inveterate grumbler, and possessed apparently of a chronic cold in his nose; his temper was none of the best—he had kicked, and on one occasion had attempted to bite, he had fought his comrades in the lines, and had got the picketing ropes into dire confusion; but, for all that, he was a living thing, and Jack, who was fond of all dumb creatures, watched him with tears in his eyes. It did not last long: the unshapely head sank lower and lower; then suddenly turning his long neck round to the side of his body, the animal rolled over, and all that remained of poor "Lamentations" was a meagre meal for the jackals and vultures.

Hour after hour the men waited, huddled together behind the hastily-formed breastwork of the zareba. "Swabs" occasionally peered through a loophole in the boxes to get a snap-shot at any figure that might be seen creeping about among the distant bushes. Jack, worn out with the night march, stretched himself upon the sand, and, in spite of the constant zip of bullets and discharge of rifles, sank into a deep slumber.

At length he was awakened by a general movement among his comrades: orders had been issued for a portion of the column to fight its way to the Nile, and a square was being formed for the purpose a little to the left of the zareba. In silence, and with anxious expressions on their faces, the men fell into their places, lying down to escape the leaden hail. The force seemed a ridiculously small one to oppose to the swarming masses of the enemy, yet on its success depended the safety of the whole column.

The bugle sounded, and the men sprang to their feet, to be exposed immediately to a heavy fire. Slowly and doggedly they moved forward, now halting to close up gaps, and now changing direction to gain more open ground. The vicious bang of rifles, fired at comparatively close range, told of innumerable sharpshooters lurking around in the grass and shrubs. A bullet suddenly tore the metal ornament from the top of Jack's helmet, and striking the sword-bayonet of a man behind, knocked his rifle nearly out of his hands.

"A miss is as good as a mile!" remarked Sergeant Sparks; but as he spoke Joe Crouch was suddenly flung to the ground as though felled by the stroke of a hammer.

Jack involuntarily uttered a cry of dismay, and the sergeant dropped down on one knee to assist the fallen man. To every one's astonishment, however, the latter rose to his feet unaided, looking rather dazed and gasping for breath, and picking up his rifle staggered back into the ranks. A spent shot had struck him on the bandoleer, demolishing one of the cartridges, but fortunately failing to penetrate the leather belt.

Now and again the square halted to send a volley wherever the enemy seemed to be gathered in any numbers, then continuing the advance in the same cool, deliberate manner.

Jack was marching in the left side, close to one of the rear corners, and, as fate would have it, the left half of the rear face was formed of the ——sex, and from the first he had been close to Valentine. They were within a dozen yards of each other, and every few moments Jack turned his head to assure himself that his cousin was unhurt.

For more than an hour the little square had been doggedly pursuing its forward movement, and now the enemy were seen in black masses on the low hills to the left front.

"They're coming, that's my belief!" said Joe Crouch, turning to address his chum. He got no reply; for, at that instant, as the other happened to look round, he saw his cousin stagger and sink down upon the sand. In an instant Jack had sprung to his assistance; but this time it was no false alarm. The bullet had done too well its cruel work. For a moment Valentine seemed to recognize him, and looking up, with his left hand still clutching at his breast, made a ghastly attempt to smile. Then, with a groan, he fell over on his side, and fainted.

A stretcher was brought, and Jack was ordered sharply to get back to the ranks. As he took his place the square halted, and an excited murmur rose on all sides:—

"Here they come!—Thank God! they're going to charge!"



CHAPTER XX.

THE RIVER'S BRINK.

"Then he could see that the bright colours were faded from his uniform; but whether they had been washed off during his journey, or from the effects of his sorrow, no one could say."—The Brave Tin Soldier.

Darkness had fallen, and a thick mist rising from the river made the still, night air damp and penetrating; but the weary men, stretched out upon the sand, slept soundly in spite of the cold, and of the scanty protection from it afforded by their clothing. The dark figures of the sentries surrounding the bivouac, moving slowly to and fro, or pausing to rest on their arms, seemed the only signs of wakefulness, except where the occasional gleam of a lantern shone out as the surgeons went their rounds among the wounded.

Jack, however, was not asleep. He seemed instead to be just waking up from a troubled dream, in which all that had happened since he had seen Valentine placed upon the stretcher had passed before his mind in a confused jumble of sights and sounds, leaving only a vague recollection of what had really taken place:—The oncoming mass of Arabs; the crash of the volleys, changing into the continuous roar of independent firing; the pungent reek of the powder as the rolling clouds of smoke enveloped the square; and the sight of the enemy falling in scores, wavering, slackening the pace of their advance, and finally retreating over the distant hills, not one having reached the line of bayonets. Then, in the growing dusk, as the square advanced, the sight of the silver stream showing every now and again amidst the green, cultivated strip of land upon its banks; the wild joy of men suffering the tortures of a burning thirst, which swelled their tongues and blackened their lips; and the pitiful sight of the wounded being held up that they might catch a glimpse of the distant river; the wait on the brink of the broad stretch of cool, priceless water, as each face of the square moved up in turn to take its fill; and then, no sucking the dregs of a warm water-bottle, but a long, cold, satisfying drink.



All this, though so recently enacted, seemed to have left but a faint impression of its reality on Jack's mind; his one absorbing thought being that Valentine was hit, badly wounded, perhaps dying, or even dead.

A man approached, and in the darkness stumbled over one of the slumberers.

"Now, then, where are you coming to?"

"Dunno—wish I did. D'you men belong to the Blankshire? Where's your officer?"

"Can't say. Wait a minute; that's he lying by that bit of bush—Captain Hamling."

Our hero raised himself into a sitting posture. He had recognized the new-comer as a hospital orderly, and in the surrounding stillness heard him deliver his message:—

"Surgeon Gaylard sends his compliments, and would you allow one of your men named Fenleigh to come and see an officer who's badly wounded? He's some relative I think, sir."

"Very good," answered the captain drowsily; "you can find him yourself."

The orderly had no difficulty in doing that, for in a moment Jack was at his side.

"Is he dying?"

"Dunno; he's badly hurt—shot through the lungs, and he's asked for you several times."

It was a cruel night for the wounded, with nothing to shelter them from the bitter cold. Valentine lay upon the ground, with his head propped up against a saddle. The surgeon was stooping over him as the two men approached, and the light of his lamp tell on the pale, pinched features of the sufferer. Within the last three days Jack had seen scores of men hurried into eternity, and his senses had become hardened by constant association with bloodshed and violent death, yet the sight of those unmistakable lines on that one familiar face turned his heart to stone.

"You're some relative, I believe. He seemed very anxious to see you, so I sent the orderly. What?— Yes, you may stay with him if you like; but keep quiet, and don't let him talk more than you can help."

"Is—is he dying, sir?"

"He may live till morning, but I doubt if he will."

Jack went down on his knees. There was no "sir" this time—sword, and sash, and shoulder-strap were all forgotten.

"Val!" The great, grey eyes, already heavy with the sleep of death, opened wide.

"Jack! my dear Jack!"

"Yes; I've come to look after you. Are you in much pain?"

"No—only when I cough—and—it's dreadfully cold."

The listener stifled down a groan. Ah, dear thoughts of long ago! Such things had never happened on the mimic battlefields at Brenlands. This, then, was the reality.

"Jack, I want you to promise me something—your word of honour to a dying man."

A fit of coughing, ending in a groan of agony, interrupted the request.

"Don't talk too much," answered the other in a broken voice. "What is it you want? I'll do anything for you, God knows!"

"I want you to promise that you'll take this ring to Queen Mab—and give it to her with your own hands. Say that I remembered her always—and carried my love for her with me down into the grave. Promise me that you will give it her—yourself!"

Valentine ceased speaking, exhausted with the effort.

"I will, I will!" returned the other, taking the ring. "But don't talk about dying, Val; you'll pull through right enough."

The sufferer answered with a feeble shake of his head, and another terrible fit of coughing left him faint and gasping for breath.

"Stay with me," he whispered.

Jack propped him up to ease his breathing, and wiped the blood from his pallid lips. For a long, long time he sat silently holding the hand of his dying friend; then, fight against it as he would, exhausted nature began to assert herself in an overpowering desire to sleep. Numbed with cold, and wellnigh heart-broken, wretched in body and mind, jealous of the moments as they flew past and of the lessening opportunity of proving his love by any trifling service it might be in his power to render—in spite of all this, an irresistible drowsiness crept over him, and his head fell forward on his knees.

The feeble voice was speaking again.

"What did you say, Val? God forgive me, I cannot keep awake."

Bending close down to catch the words, he could distinguish, even in the darkness, some faint traces of the old familiar smile.

"You used to say—that I had all the luck—but, you remember—at Brenlands—it was the lead captain that got killed."

Jack murmured some reply, he was too worn out and miserable to weep. Once more that terrible struggle to keep his heavy eyes from closing; a dozen times he straightened his back, and groaned in bitterness of spirit at the thought that he could wish to sleep at such a time as this; then once again his head sank under the heavy weight of fatigue and want of rest, and everything became a blank.

* * * * *

Awakening with a start, Jack scrambled to his feet. How long he had slept he could not tell, nor did he realize where he was till the light of a lantern flashing in his eyes brought him to his senses.

"How is—" the question died on his lips.

The surgeon took one keen glance, held the lamp closer, and then raised it again.

"Is he going, sir?"

"Going? he's gone!"

The words were followed by an awful silence; then, for an instant, the yellow gleam of the lamp tell upon the soldier's face.

"Come, come, my lad!" said the medical officer kindly, "we did what we could for him, but it was hopeless from the first. Be thankful that you've got a whole skin yourself. You'd better rejoin your company."

The sky was paling with the first indications of the coming dawn. The men were standing to their arms, and Jack hurried away to take his place in the ranks, hiding his grief as best he could from the eyes of his comrades. Then as he turned to look once more towards the spot whence he had come, he saw, away across the river, the flush of rosy light brighten in the east, and all unbidden there came back to his memory the words of Queen Mab's hymn. The sun rose with a red glare, scattering the mist and sending a glow of warmth across the desert; and once more the old, sweet melody was sounding in his heart, while all around seemed telling of hopes fulfilled and sorrows vanquished when

"Morning's joy shall end the night of weeping."



CHAPTER XXI.

"WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME AGAIN!"

"It touched the tin soldier so much to see her that he almost wept tin tears, but he kept them back. He looked at her, and they both remained silent."—The Brave Tin Soldier.

It was a hot, still afternoon in August. The birds were silent, hardly a leaf stirred, and everything seemed to have dozed off to sleep in the quiet sunshine. Old Ned Brown, the cobbler, and general "handy-man" of the village, who, in days gone by, had often bound bats and done other odd jobs for "Miss Fenleigh's young nevies," laid down his awl, and gazed out of the window of his dingy little shop.

A soldier was walking slowly down the road. His boots were covered with dust, and on the breast of his red coat glittered the Egyptian medal and the Khedive's Cross.

"That must be Widow Crouch's son," said Ned to himself. "I heard he was back from the war. Maybe he'll know summat about the young gen'leman who used to come and stay up at the house yonder, and who, they say, was killed. Ah, yes! I remember him well—a nice, pleasant-spoken young chap! Dear me, dear me! sad work, sad work!" With a shake of his head, the old man once more picked up the shoe he was mending, still muttering to himself, "Yes, I remember him—sad work, sad work!"

The soldier strode on. His thoughts also were busy with memories of the past. In one sense he was not alone; for before him, in fancy, walked a boy—a rather surly, uncared-for looking young dog, with hands in his pockets, coat thrown open, and Cricket cap perched on the back of his head, as though in open defiance of the rain that was falling. The road had been damp and dismal then; to-day it was dry and dusty; but the heart of the man who trod it was no lighter than it had been that evening ten years ago.

The old cobbler had been mistaken. It was not Joe Crouch, but Jack Fenleigh, who had just passed the window of the little shop. He was thinking of the first time he had come to Brenlands at the commencement of the summer holidays, after having been kept back on the breaking-up day as a punishment for sending a pillow through the glass ventilator of the Long Dormitory.

"I didn't want to face her then," he said to himself, switching the dust off his trousers with his cane. "And yet, how kind she was! Never mind! she won't know me now. Valentine promised he wouldn't write, and he never broke his word."

Jack had walked from Melchester. More than once in the course of the journey he had hesitated, and thought of turning back; but the sacredness of the promise made to a dying man had compelled him to go forward.

He turned the corner, and slackened his pace as he saw before him the old house nestling among the trees. There was no board with TO LET printed on it, such as usually, in story-books, greets the eye of the returning wanderer. The place was just the same as it always had been; and the very fact of its being unchanged appealed to his feelings in a manner which it would be impossible to describe. The white front gate, whose hinges had been so often tried by its being transformed into a sort of merry-go-round; the clumps of laurel bushes which had afforded such good hiding-places in games of "I spy;" even the long-suffering little brass weathercock above the stable roof, which had served as a mark for catapult shooting,—these, and a hundred other objects on which his eyes rested, recalled memories which softened his heart, and brought back more vividly than ever the recollection of that faithful friend, whose last request he was about to fulfil.

"I must do it," he muttered, feeling in his pocket for the ring; "I promised him I would."

He pushed open the gate, and walked almost on tiptoe down the path, casting anxious glances at the windows. To his great relief it was not Jane who opened the door, but a new servant.

"Is Miss Fenleigh in?" he stammered. "Will you tell her a—a private soldier has brought her something from an officer who died in Egypt?"

The girl showed him into the old, quiet parlour (as if he could not have found the way thither himself), and there left him. It was very still. Nothing broke the silence but the sleepy tick of the clock, and the sound of some one (Jakes, perhaps) raking gravel on the garden path. Everything was unaltered. There was the little bust of Minerva that Barbara had once adorned with a paper bonnet; the fretsaw bookcase that the two boys had made at school; and the quaint little glass-fronted cupboard, let into the panelling, from which the watch had been stolen. In the years that had passed, only one thing in the room had changed, and that was the tall figure in uniform standing on the hearthrug.

He turned to look at himself in the glass. The dark moustache, bronzed skin, red tunic with its white collar and badges of the "royal tiger;" all these things had never been reflected there before, and for the twentieth time during the last half-hour he sought to reassure himself with the thought that his disguise was complete. "She'll never recognize me!" he muttered. "It's all right." Then the door opened, and for an instant his heart seemed to stop beating.

The same easy dignity and graciousness of manner, the same sweet womanly face, and the same depths of love and ready sympathy in her clear, calm eyes. She was dressed in mourning, and at her throat was the brooch containing the locks of the children's hair. Jack noticed it at once, and saw, too, that the little silver locket still had its place among the gold trinkets on her watch chain; and the sight of it very nearly brought him down upon his knees at her feet.

She seemed smaller than ever, and now, standing in front of him, her upturned face was about on a level with the medals on his breast.

What was it made his chest heave and his lips tremble as he encountered her gaze? However foolish and headstrong he might have been in the past, he knew he had only to declare himself and it would all be forgotten and forgiven. "You may doubt us," Valentine had said, "but we have never lost faith in you." Yes, that was it; she loved her ugly duckling, believing even now that, in spite of outward appearances, it would one day turn into a swan. But the years had slipped away, and the change had never taken place. She might hope that it had, and it was best that she should never know the truth.

With a set face he began to speak.

"I've lately returned from Egypt, and saw there your nephew, Lieutenant Fenleigh, of the ——sex Regiment."

He tried to say "ma'am," but even at that moment it seemed too great a mockery, and the word choked him.

"I was with him when he died on the banks of the Nile. He asked me to bring you this, and to give it to you with my own hands."

She took the ring, but without moving her eyes from the speaker's face.

"He asked me to tell you that he remembered you always."

The voice grew husky, and the lady drew a little closer, perhaps to hear more plainly what was said.

"And to say that he carried his—his love for you with him down into the grave."

With a great effort Jack finished the message. The words had brought back a flood of vivid recollections of that dreadful night, and his eyes were filled with blinding tears. He turned to brush them away, and as he did so he felt Queen Mab's arms meet round his neck.

"You dear old boy! don't you think I know you? Don't you think I knew you as soon as you came inside the gate?"

He made some attempt to reply, uttered a broken word or two, and then turned away his head; but she, standing on tiptoe, drew it down lower and lower, until at length it rested on her shoulder.

And so the ugly duckling ended his wanderings.

* * * * *

No autumn frosts or winter snows could ever have fallen on that garden, for here were the same flowers, and fruit, and ferns as had bloomed and ripened that last August holiday seven years ago. So, at least, thought Jack, as he and his aunt walked together along the paths.

"Did he write from Egypt to tell you about me?"

"No; but I've always been expecting you. I knew you'd come back some time."

"I didn't think you'd recognize me."

"Valentine knew I should. Don't you see it was you he sent home to me, and not the ring?"

Jack was silent. Everything that his eye rested upon reminded him of that faithful, boyish friendship, and his lip quivered.

Queen Mab noticed it, and changed the subject.

"I wonder what Jakes will think to see me walking about arm-in-arm with a soldier," she said gaily. "Never mind, I must make the most of it while it lasts. I'm afraid I shan't have many more opportunities of 'keeping company' with a red-coat."

"How d'you mean?" he asked, with an uneasy, downward glance at his uniform. "My time isn't up for nearly three years; and I know I ought not to come here in this rig-out."

"Don't talk nonsense," she answered. "You're a pretty soldier to be ashamed of your cloth. Isn't it possible for a man to do his duty unless he has a pair of epaulettes on his shoulders? Can't he do it under any kind of coat? Come now," she added, shaking his arm, and looking up into his face with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, "don't you think, for the matter of that, a man could be a hero in his shirt sleeves?"

"Yes," answered Jack, laughing.

"Oh, you do! I'm glad you've come to that conclusion at last."

"Why?"

"Why? because I think you'll soon have to give us a practical illustration of how a man can distinguish himself by being capable and trustworthy, even in plain clothes. That opens up a subject that I have a lot to tell you about. Have you heard that your father and your Uncle John are friends again?"

"Yes; Val said something about it."

"You haven't heard," she continued quietly, "that before the second battle Valentine made a will, and gave it to a friend to be sent home in case he was killed. It was more in the form of a long letter, roughly written on the leaves of a pocket-book. A great deal of it was about you. He did not break his promise to you, and say actually that he had seen you, and where you were; but he assured us that he knew you had not gone to the bad, but were living an honest life, and that before long we should see you again. Then he begged his father, as a last request, to do something for you, and to treat you as his own son. Your uncle was over the other day. He is very anxious to carry out Valentine's wishes, and would like to take you into his own business, with a view to an ultimate partnership."

"It's awfully good of him," murmured Jack huskily.

"Well, that's what he intends to do. But come, it's time I put in the tea."

"It's time I went," he murmured.

"Time you went? What nonsense! You say you've got a week's furlough, and that you left your things at the Black Horse. Well, I'm just going to send Jakes to fetch them. Why, I quite forgot to tell you that little Bar was staying here."

The person who had just stepped out from the open French window on to the lawn was certainly no longer little, but a tall, graceful young lady. There was, however, still some trace in her roguish mouth and dancing eyes of the smaller Barbara who had wrought such havoc among her enemies by firing six peas at a time instead of two.

Jack had never before been frightened at Bar, of all people in the world; but now, if Queen Mab had not still retained her hold of his arm, he might very likely have bolted into the shrubbery.

The girl advanced slowly across the lawn, casting inquiring glances, first at the red coat and medals, and then at the bronzed face of the stranger. Then suddenly her mouth opened, and she quickened her pace to a run.

"Oh, you rascal!" she cried. "It's Jack!"

That was all the speech-making Barbara thought necessary in welcoming the returning prodigal; and not caring a straw for bars and ribbons, pipeclay, and "royal tigers," she embraced him in the same hearty manner as she had always done when they met at the commencement of bygone summer holidays.

The dainty tea-table was a great change after the barrack-room. The pretty china cups seemed wonderfully small and fragile compared with the familiar basin; and once Jack found himself absent-mindedly stuffing his serviette into his sleeve, under the impression that it was his handkerchief.

"Why, when was the last time you had tea here?" asked Barbara. "It must have been that summer when Raymond—" She stopped short, but the last word instantly brought to Jack's mind the recollection of that evening when Fosberton had charged him with being a thief.

"By-the-bye," he exclaimed, "I forgot to tell you—I've found the watch."

"Yes, I know," answered Queen Mab quietly. "Valentine gave a full account of it in his letter."

Jack was just going to launch out into a long and forcible tirade on the subject of the theft, but his cousin signed to him across the table to let the matter drop.

"Aunt has been in such a dreadful way about it," she explained afterwards. "Only she and ourselves know about it. She doesn't like even to have Raymond's name mentioned. He has turned out a thorough scamp, and has given Uncle Fosberton no end of trouble. Father happened to know the friends of that officer who was killed, and when his things were sent home the watch was returned; so it's back again now in the same old place. Aunt has never told any one, not even Raymond himself, as she doesn't want to bring fresh trouble on his parents."

Later on in the evening, as they sat together in the old, panelled parlour in the soft light of the shaded lamp, the talk turned naturally and sweetly on Valentine—on all that he used to say and do; and Jack told as best he could the story of the desert march, and of that last sad parting on the river's brink. After he had finished, there was a silence; then Barbara picked up the piece of work she had laid down.

"So you didn't find war quite such a jolly thing as you used to think it would be?" she said, looking across at him with a tearful smile.

"No," he answered thoughtfully. "I suppose things that you have long set your mind on seldom turn out exactly what you want and expect them to be. I'm glad I saw active service, and I'd go through it all again a hundred times for the sake of having been with Valentine when he died; though it was little I could do for him, more than to say good-bye."

Queen Mab rose from her chair, and stooped over the speaker to wish him good-night.

"Never mind," she said softly. "I'm glad to think of both my boys that their warfare is accomplished!"



CHAPTER XXII

CONCLUSION.

"I never dreamed of such happiness as this while I was an ugly duckling!"—The Ugly Duckling.

The old house at Brenlands still remains unaltered, except that the empty room upstairs, once the scene of so many terrible conflicts between miniature metal armies, has been turned into a nursery. Another generation of children is growing up now, and eagerly they listen while Aunt Mabel tells the old story of the tin soldier who went adventuring in a paper boat, and came back in the end to the place from which he had started; or the history of the little lead captain, who stands keeping guard over the precious things in the treasure cupboard; and who once, after bearing the brunt of a long engagement, fell in front of his men, just as the fighting ended.

When the nursery is in use, a long-forgotten little gateway makes its appearance at the top of the stairs, and "Uncle Jack" pays toll through the bars to the chubby little Helen standing on the other side.

Queen Mab tries to make out that she is growing older; but her courtiers will not believe it, and go so far as to scoff at and hide her spectacle case, declaring that her wearing glasses is only a pretence.

But though Brenlands and its queen may seem the same as ever, many of those connected with it in our story have experienced changes, of which some mention should be made.

Old Jakes has been obliged to give up the gardening, and Joe Crouch has been installed in his stead. Joe has finished his time, both with the colours and in the reserve; but he is the soldier still—smart, clean, and never needing to have an order repeated twice. He often unconsciously falls back into former habits, and comes marching up the path with his spade at the "slope" or his hoe at the "trail," whistling softly the old quick-step, which once drew our hero to "go with the rest, and follow the drum."

For Jack he cherishes the fondest regard and deepest admiration, which he never hesitates to express in such words as these:—

"Aw, yes, sir! he's what I call the right sort, is Master Jack. He don't turn his back on an old cumred, as some would. I 'member the day he bought himself out. 'Well, good-bye,' says I—'we've been soldierin' together a good time, and in some queer places; but now you're goin' back to be a gen'leman again, and I suppose we shan't see each other never no more.' 'I should be a precious poor gen'leman if I ever forgot you, Joe,' says he; 'you stood by me when I first came to barracks, and some day I hope I shall be able to do something for you in return.' And so he did, for he kept writin' to me, and when my time was up he got me this place. Look here, sir, the day he come to enlist the corporal at the gate says to him, 'We ought to make a general of such a fine chap as you;' and you take my word for it, that's just what they would have made of him, if he'd only stopped long enough!"

Of Barbara something might be said, but that something is for the present supposed to be a secret. Jack, who, like the average boy, always seemed to have a knack of finding out things that were intended to be kept private, knows more than he ought about this matter; and bringing out a handful of coppers at the table, and representing them to be the whole of his savings, declares that he will be "dead broke" should any unforeseen circumstance necessitate his purchasing a wedding present. Whereupon his cousin blushes, and puts her fingers in her ears, and says, "I can't hear," but listens all the time.

Of Raymond Fosberton, perhaps the less said the better. His name has come very near being mentioned in a court of law, for forging his father's signature to a cheque, and is therefore seldom mentioned among his friends. One thing, however, might be told concerning his last visit to Brenlands.

A year after that eventful Christmas in Egypt, Jack was sitting before the fire in Queen Mab's parlour, when Raymond was announced, and shown into the room. He was dressed, as usual, in good though rather flashy clothes; but in spite of this, he looked cheap and common, and his general appearance gave one the impression of dirt wrapped up in silver paper. The moment he saw Jack a spiteful look came into his face, and he took no pains to conceal the old dislike and hatred with which he still regarded the latter.

"Hallo! so you've turned up again. I thought you'd soon get sick of soldiering; too much hard work to suit your book, I expect."

"No; I left it because I had a chance of something better. Aunt Mabel's out; will you wait till she comes back?"

Jack had seen more of the world since the day when he had knocked the visitor into the laurel bush; and could now realize that Queen Mab had spoken the truth when she said that punching heads was not always the most satisfactory kind of revenge. He had a score to settle with Raymond; but he regarded the latter now as a pitiful fellow not worth quarrelling with, and he hesitated, half-minded to let the matter drop without mentioning what was on his mind.

Fosberton mistook the meaning of the other's averted glance. He thought himself master of the situation, and, like a fool, having, figuratively speaking, been given enough rope, he promptly proceeded to hang himself.

"You've been lying low for a precious long time," he continued, maliciously. "Why didn't you come here before? You've been asked often enough!"

"I had my own reasons for stopping away."

"You didn't like to come back after the bother about that watch, I suppose?"

Jack let him run on. "That was partly it," he answered.

"Well, then," continued Raymond, with a sneer, "you made a great mistake bolting like that; you gave yourself away completely."

"I don't understand you," returned the other, with a sharper ring in his voice. "D'you mean to charge me again with having stolen the watch?"

"Pooh! I daresay you know what's become of it."

"Yes," answered Jack calmly, at the same time fixing the other with a steady stare, "I do know what's become of it: at the present moment it's in its case in that cupboard there. Shall I show it you?"

The answer was so strange and unexpected that Raymond started; the meaning look in his cousin's eyes warned him that he was treading on dangerous ground. He had, however, gone too far to let the matter drop suddenly without any attempt to brazen out the situation.

"Humph!" he said; "I suppose you put it back yourself."

"I was the means of its being brought back. I found it in the pocket of an officer named Lawson who was killed in Egypt."

The withering tone and scornful curl of the lip was on the other side now. The visitor was fully aware of it, and winced as though he had been cut with a whip.

"Mr. Lawson had been stationed with the regiment at Melchester, and I happen to know how the watch came into his possession."

Raymond saw that he had rushed into a pitfall of his own making—he was entirely in his opponent's hands—and like the mean cur he was, immediately began to sue for forgiveness and terms of peace.

"Hush!" he cried, glancing at the door. "Don't say any more, the servants might hear. I'm very sorry I did it, but you know how it was; I was pushed for money, I say, you haven't told any one, have you?"

"No. Uncle John and Aunt Mabel know; though I don't think you need fear that they will let it go any further."

"That's all right," continued Raymond, in a snivelling tone. "I was badgered for money, and I really couldn't help it. I've been sorry enough since. I don't think I'll wait any longer, I'm in rather a hurry. Well, good-bye. And look here, old chap—I'm afraid I treated you rather badly; but well let bygones be bygones. I don't want it to get to the governor's ears, so you won't mention it, will you?"

Jack cast a contemptuous glance at the proffered hand, and put his own behind his back.

"No; I won't tell any one," he answered shortly, then turned on his heel, and that was his revenge.

And now the only person remaining of whom a last word might be said at parting, is our hero himself.

It was a balmy evening in that eternal summer that seemed to reign at Brenlands; and he and Queen Mab were walking slowly round the green lawn, while the swallows went wheeling to and fro overhead.

Fastened to her bunch of trinkets next the locket was a silver coin—the enlisting shilling, which Jack had never parted with since he first received it on that memorable morning at the Melchester barracks.

"Yes," said Aunt Mabel, "it was Queen Victoria's once, but now it's mine!"

"Well, I think I earned it," he answered, laughing.

"Perhaps you'd like to go and earn another?"

"No; I'm too happy where I am. Uncle John is awfully good to me. He couldn't be kinder if I were his own son."

"So you're content at last to stay at home and take what's given you?"

"Yes; I think I've settled down at last. Dear old Val said that the lane would turn some time, and so it has. My luck's changed."

"I think I'd put it down to something better than that," said Queen Mab, smiling. "Perhaps it is not all luck, but a little of yourself that has changed."

Jack laughed again, but made no attempt to deny the truth of the suggestion. Possibly he felt that what she said was right, and that not only in his surroundings, but also in his own heart, had come at last the long lane's turning.



THE END.



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