upon you to the last. So, how could you have killed her?"

"Called upon me to the last," echoed William, with the air of one who repeats what he does not hear.

“Mildred wrote me all about it; she was stopping there at the time, with your sisters," continued Jenniker. "For three days previous to her death, she was scarcely in her right mind; it was that wandering, I conclude, that sometimes precedes it. Her whole talk, then, was of you; now praying that you might be preserved on the sea, now fancying she saw you in danger of shipwreck, and crying wildly to the sailors to save you. Next, she would witness you in all imaginary hardships, and lament, in the most heartrending terms, that you were exposed to such; again she would fancy you had returned, and that she was clasping you in her arms, wild with joy and thankfulness, sobbing hysterically."

"Go on; tell it all," said William, for Jenniker had stopped.

"But in all her illness, in this wandering, or previous to it, she never breathed against you a word of reproach; you were still her darling William; her eldest and dearest child. But they said she never held up her head, so to speak, from the night you left; and after the receipt of a letter you wrote from America, her health visibly declined.

William made no reply. He only wiped the moisture from his brow.

"In this letter, as Mildred related it to me, you said you were working on an American trading ship, and were bound for California, round Cape Horn. Now,

of all dreadful accounts that anybody could give or imagine, of what the life was on board these ships, Gruff Jones gave the worst to Mrs Allair. Like an idiot, as he was, for his pains!"

"He told truth; it is the worst," interrupted

William.

"Well, he need not have said it. It couldn't improve things for you, and it only made her worry and fret over them. Let him go open-mouthed with his tale to all the village, had he liked, but he might have had the sense to spare Mrs Allair. Gruff always was a booby. Why couldn't he have persuaded her that the trading ships were little models of Paradise, where the chaps had nothing to do but sit cross-legged all day, and dine on beefsteak and onions?"

Jenniker stopped again, but still William never spoke. "She had imagined the life dark enough before, but Gruff's description was the climax. Always was she brooding over the hardships you must undergo, the perils you were exposed to. Not that she said much; but they could see how it was. And, from what escaped her in the death-delirium, it was evident that these sorrows had haunted her night and day. Added to which, was the constant fear, or presentiment if like, that you would not live to return."

you

"When did she die ?" questioned William, burying. his face in his hands.

"About twelve months ago, I think; but I am a bad one to remember dates. Stay-it was in January; for I know in the same letter, Mildred told me how they kept up Christmas at the Jennikers'. Yes, a twelvemonth ago, as near as possible."

"Two whole years and some months of sorrow, of yearning, for me!" he gasped. "And this is true!"

"True!" echoed Jenniker, taking the words as a question. "I shouldn't give it you if it were not true.” "How was my father?"

"Ailing," Mildred said; "not over strong."

"And the rest?" he continued, his face still hid in his hands.

"Oh, the rest were all well," carelessly replied Jenniker. "Edmund as silly as ever."

"I will come in another time, Richard," said William, starting up. But Jenniker caught him by the hand.

"Don't take it to heart in this way, Allair. Fathers and mothers must die, and it's only in the course of nature that they should go before we do. I lost mine when I was a lad. Don't take it so much to heart!"

William wrung his hand; and, without a word-for he could not utter it-made his way from the field hospital.

And when the shades of night fell and shielded him from observation, he threw himself on the ground, and sobbed aloud, in his excess of grief. The rain was falling in torrents, the earth was soaked with it, for it had scarcely ceased since the night of the battle. But he was unmindful of rain. His cup of sorrow was indeed full; and he would have been thankful to die on the spot, as he lay there. Never had the consequence of his folly, in all its sad reality, come home to him until now. His best friend on earth was gone; had broken her heart for him; had called upon him in dying: and he was far away, and knew it not.

Was it for this that he had passed through his dangers. and his sorrows? Through the hard work on the coast; through the harder life at sea; through the fever and delirium; through the fatigue of the forced marches; through the horrors of the battle-field! Against all had his spirit fought; for there was ever a still small hope alive in his heart, whispering him to bear up, that he might once more behold the mother whose love he had so wantonly cast aside. And now he knew that that mother had died; and died for him!

Bury your face in the wet earth, William Allair, and call in vain upon her who is no longer on earth to respond. The sin of a child's ingratitude is a grievous one; and grievous must be its retribution.

CHAPTER XIX.

DYING IN THE FIELD HOSPITAL.

BOTH the Sikhs and the British forces remained some three weeks at Chillianwallah, in the position each had taken up after the battle. Then the Sikhs moved away in the night towards Goojerat, a town situated seventeen miles distant, midway between the Jhelum and the Chenab. They took possession of the place, and entrenched themselves round about it.

Lord Gough followed them, marching up his troops. I wonder if you have a tolerably correct idea of what marching in India is? It is essentially different from marching in England. Weary work it is there-killing work sometimes. They have often to push through plains of thick jungle breast high; or they plod over the hot sand, the small dust from which flies into their eyes, blinding them for the time, and causing intolerable pain. For a change, the land will be a marshy swamp, and they must wade through that. In those forced marches the burning sun seems to be a very fire, oppressing the brain, blistering the face, scorching them through their hot, heavy clothing. And there's not a drop of water to be obtained, did you give your life for it.

William Allair's hand did not heal. It gave him great pain, and became suddenly much worse; greatly inflamed and swollen. This was after the march of the