oman with a soul.

A few weeks later.

We were sitting at breakfast. The morning newspaper contained the
account of a battle and the lists of British officers killed. I scanned
as usual the melancholy columns, when a name among the dead caught my
eye--and I stared at it stupidly. Pasquale was dead, killed outright
by a Boer bullet. The wild, bright life was ended. It seemed a horrible
thing, and, much as he had wronged me, my first sentiment was one of
dismay. He was too gallant and beautiful a creature for death.

Carlotta poured out my tea and came round with the cup which she
deposited by my side. To prevent her peeping over my shoulder at the
paper, as she usually did, I laid it on the table; but her quick eye had
already read the great headlines.

"Great Battle. British officers killed. Oh, let me see, Seer Marcous."

"No, dear," said I. "Go and eat your breakfast."

She looked at me strangely. I tried to smile; but as I am an incompetent
actor my grimace was a proclamation of disingenuousness.

"Why shouldn't I read it?" she asked, quickly.

"Because I say you mustn't, Carlotta."

She continued to look at me. She had suddenly grown pale. I stirred my
tea and made a pretence of sipping it.

"Go on with your breakfast, my child," I repeated.

"There is something--something about him in the paper," said Carlotta.
"He is a British officer."

In the face of her intuition further concealment appeared useless.
Besides, sooner or later she would have to know.

"He is a British officer no longer, dear," said I.

"Is he dead?"

My mind flew back to an evening long ago--long, long ago it seemed--when
another newspaper had told of another death, and my ears caught the echo
of the identical question that had then fallen from her lips. I dreaded
lest she should say again, "I am so glad."

I beckoned her to my side, and pointing with my finger to the name
watched her face anxiously. She read, stared for a bit in front of her
and turned to me with a piteous look. I drew her to me, and she laid her
face against my shoulder.

"I don't know why I'm crying, Seer Marcous, dear," she said, after a
while.

I made her drink some of my tea, but she would eat nothing, and
presently she went upstairs. She had not said that she was glad. She had
wept and not known the reason for her tears. I railed at myself for my
doubts of her.

She was subdued and thoughtful all the day. In the evening, instead of
curling hersel