yourself--it's well worth the while--what stuff fellows are made of that
face danger every day and night, without one thought above duty, never
expecting, never dreaming that anything they do is to have its personal
benefit, and would far rather have their health drunk by their comrades
than be quoted in the 'Times.' You'll find your old regiment there,--you
were in the Fusilier Guards, weren't you?"

"Yes, I tried soldiering, but I did n't like it," said Beecher; "and it
was better in my day than _now_, they tell me."

A movement of impatience on Conway's part was suddenly interrupted by
Kellett, saying, "He means that the service is n't what it was; and
indeed he's right there. I remember the time there wasn't a man in the
Eighty-fifth could n't carry away three bottles of Bennett's strong
port, and play as good a rubber, afterwards, as Hoyle himself."

"It's the snobbery I was thinking of," said Beecher; "fellows go into
the army now who ought to be counter-jumping."

"I don't know what they ought to be doing," broke in Conway, angrily,
"but I could tell you something of what they are doing; and where you
are to find men to do it better, I 'm not so clear. I said a few
moments back, you ought to go out to the Crimea; but I beg to correct
myself,--it is exactly what you ought not to do."

"Never fear, old fellow; I never dreamed of it. Give you any odds you
like, you 'll never see my arrival quoted at Balaklava."

"A thousand pardons, Miss Kellett," whispered Conway, as he arose, "but
you see how little habit I have of good company; I'm quite ashamed of
my warmth. May I venture to come and pay you a morning visit before I go
back?"

"Oh, by all means; but why not an evening one? You are more certain to
find us."

"Then an evening one, if you'll allow me;" and shaking Kellett's hand
warmly, and with a cold bow to Beecher, he withdrew.

"Wasn't he a flat!" cried Beecher, as the door closed after him. "The
Smasher--that was the name he went by--went through an estate of six
thousand a year, clean and clear, in less than four years, and there he
is now, a private soldier with one arm!"

"Faith, I like him; he's a fine fellow," said Kellett, heartily.

"Ask Grog Davis if he'd call him a fine fellow," broke in Beecher,
sneeringly; "there's not such a spoon from this to Newmarket. Oh, Paul,
my hearty, if I had but one, just one of the dozen chances he has thrown
away! But, as Grog says, 'a crowbar won't make a