ng his story); "and the King. Why did the King
encourage Sir John Armytage to go? A gentleman could not refuse a
command from such a quarter. And now the poor gentleman is dead! Oh,
what a state his Majesty must be in!"

"I have no doubt his Majesty will be in a deep state of grief," says
papa, wagging his head.

"Now you are laughing! Do you mean, sir, that when a gentleman dies
in his service, almost at his feet, the King of England won't feel
for him?" Hetty asks. "If I thought that, I vow I would be for the
Pretender!"

"The sauce-box would make a pretty little head for Temple Bar," says the
General, who could see Miss Hetty's meaning behind her words, and was
aware in what a tumult of remorse, of consternation, of gratitude that
the danger was over, the little heart was beating. "No," says he, "my
dear. Were kings to weep for every soldier, what a life you would make
for them! I think better of his Majesty than to suppose him so weak;
and, if Miss Hester Lambert got her Pretender, I doubt whether she would
be any the happier. That family was never famous for too much feeling."

"But if the King sent Harry--I mean Sir John Armytage--actually to
the war in which he lost his life, oughtn't his Majesty to repent very
much?" asks the young lady.

"If Harry had fallen, no doubt the court would have gone into mourning:
as it is, gentlemen and ladies were in coloured clothes yesterday,"
remarks the General.

"Why should we not make bonfires for a defeat, and put on sackcloth and
ashes after a victory?" asks George. "I protest I don't want to thank
Heaven for helping us to burn the ships at Cherbourg."

"Yes you do, George! Not that I have a right to speak, and you ain't
ever so much cleverer. But when your country wins you're glad--I know
I am. When I run away before Frenchmen I'm ashamed--I can't help it,
though I done it," says Harry. "It don't seem to me right somehow that
Englishmen should have to do it," he added, gravely. And George smiled;
but did not choose to ask his brother what, on the other hand, was the
Frenchman's opinion.

"'Tis a bad business," continued Harry, gravely; "but 'tis lucky 'twas
no worse. The story about the French is, that their Governor, the Duke
of Aiguillon, was rather what you call a moistened chicken. Our whole
retreat might have been cut off, only, to be sure, we ourselves were in
a mighty hurry to move. The French local militia behaved famous, I am
happy to say; and there was