et used to things," she said with a sigh.

The Colonel put his hand on her head. "Poor child," he said in a husky
voice, "don't think about me."

"Miles loved you," she answered softly, going up close to him. "I'm his
sister. Let me love you, too."

He drew her to him in a tender fatherly manner, that brought instant
comfort to her aching, wilful little heart.

"Your father was my friend, Marjorie," he said,--"the staunchest friend
man ever had. I have often wondered why we failed to understand each
other."

"You don't like girls," said Marjorie, "that's why."

The Colonel smiled grimly.

"I didn't," he said. "Perhaps I have changed my mind."

Lord Roberts had entered Pretoria, and the Colonel sat in his quarters
looking through the list of released prisoners. All at once he gave a
start, glanced hastily around, and then looked back again. About half
way down the list of officers, he read:

"Lieut. M. Weyburne (reported killed at Spion Kop)."

Miles was alive: there had been some mistake. The bugle sounded. It was
a quarter past nine. He walked out on to the parade-ground with his
usual firm step, smiling as he went. Miles was alive. He could have
dashed down the barrack-square like a bugler-boy in the lightness of his
heart.

People who met him that day hastened to congratulate him. He said very
little, but looked years younger.

Three weeks later there came a letter from Miles, explaining how he had
been left upon the ground for dead, and on coming to himself, had fallen
unarmed into the hands of the Boers. He had never fully recovered from
his wounds, and by the doctor's orders had been invalided home, so that
his guardian might expect him about ten days after receiving his letter.

It was a happy home-coming. The Colonel went down to Southampton to meet
him, and when he reached his aunt's house he found a letter from
Marjorie awaiting him. "The Colonel's a dear," she wrote; "I understand
now why you think such a lot of him."

Miles turned with a smile to his guardian.

"You and Marjorie are friends at last, Colonel," he said.

"Yes, my boy," he returned gravely; "we know each other better now."

'TWIXT LIFE AND DEATH.

_A MANX STORY._

BY CLUCAS JOUGHIN.

PART I.

Deborah Shimmin was neither tall nor fair, and yet Nature had been kind
to her in many ways. She had wonderful eyes--large, dark, and full of
mute eloquence--and if her mouth was too large, her nose too irregular,
an