rmured, "What have I done? What have
I said?"

"Nothing, my boy," said the Colonel, holding out his hands, "but what
had my son been in your place I would have gladly seen him do and heard
him say."

One moment Singh's face, quivering with emotion, was hidden in the
Colonel's breast; the next, he rushed from the room, closely followed by
Glyn.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN.

THE SORE PLACE IN THE FENCE.

Time had gone on after his good old fashion, moving silently and
insidiously, seeming to crawl to those who were waiting for something,
till it suddenly dawns upon them that he has been making tremendous
strides with those long legs of his which puzzled the little girl who
asked her mother whether it was true that Time had those means of
progression. Many will remember that the mother asked the child why she
supposed that Time had legs, "Because," she replied, "people speak about
the lapse of Time, and if he has laps he must have legs to make them
of."

The troubles connected with the disappearance of the belt, and the
unpleasant weeks during which masters, scholars, and servants seemed to
have been mentally poisoned by suspicion and were all disposed to look
askant at each other, had passed away, and, in his busy avocations and
joining in the school sports, Singh was disposed to look upon the theft
of his pseudo-heirloom as something which had never happened.

"Even if it had been real, Glyn," he said one night as they lay talking
across the room in the dark, and the boy had grown into a much more
philosophical state of mind, "what would it have mattered?"

"Not a jolly bit," said Glyn drowsily.

"I suppose it's being here in England," continued Singh, "where you
people don't think so much about dressing up, and getting to be more
English myself, that I don't seem to care about ornaments as I used.
Sometimes I think it was very stupid of me to want to bring such a thing
to school with me in my travelling-trunk."

"Awfully," grumbled Glyn.

"What!" cried Singh sharply.

Glyn started. "Eh! What say?" he cried, and a yawn followed.

"You said `awfully.'"

"Did I?" said Glyn, more sleepily than ever.

"Why, you know you did," cried Singh petulantly.

"What did I say that for?"

"Ugh!" grunted Singh. "There, go to sleep. What's the good of talking
to you?"

"Not a bit," replied Glyn; "it only sounds like _buzz, buzz_."

"I haven't patience with you," cried Singh; "when I was trying to talk
quiet