nce that, when she reached
home, Dick would not be there. She pulled up, and looked round for
Colonel George, who had dropped somewhat behind her, and was gazing at
the glorious prospect of moor and valley and woodland that was spread
out before him. Instantly he was at her side.

"I am afraid that we have not the same excuse for scampering home
to-day," he said, divining her thoughts; "poor old Dick is well on his
way by now. Well, the Corporal will be back in a few days to tell us
all about him; and I hope to see him myself before long, as he will be
close to London."

"Then you are going?" said Lady Eleanor, "for how long?"

"For a long time," he said, "I am going abroad again. Three months is
not very long leave after a six months' voyage perhaps, but I am a
soldier and must go where I am told. But I don't start for another
month," he added, "so I hope to clear up this little trouble for you
before I go."

Lady Eleanor stifled a little cry. "Going away again so soon?" she
said. "Surely you are not wanted already?" But she checked herself
and went on calmly. "Then you think there is nothing very serious the
matter with that poor idiot after all?"

Colonel George shook his head. "I am not a doctor," he answered, "but
I confess that I think very badly of him, and I believe that the woman
is right, and that a doctor would be useless."

They rode on silently for a time, when Colonel George said, "That poor
woman looked nearly as ill as her son. She went through terrible
things before Corunna, but the last few days must have been almost
worse. The strain of carrying him all that distance from Bracefort
must have been more than she could really stand. She has no one except
him in the world, and if he be taken from her, I cannot think how she
will struggle on alone."

"Yes," said Lady Eleanor, as if talking to herself, "it is terrible to
be left alone."

Colonel George glanced at her quickly, but she was looking sadly
straight in front of her, and he rode on for some way further in
silence before he broke out almost fiercely, "When I lost my best
friend at Salamanca, my first thought was for her who by his death was
left alone. When I came back after the peace I should have asked her,
if I had dared, to live alone no longer, but to come and live with me.
But I dared not, and went away again, dreading every day lest I might
no longer find her alone when I came back. And now I am about
accepting an a