had had time
to say "I nev-ah!" a charming and beautifully dressed girl, of about
fifteen summers, sprang lightly from the packet on to the mess-room
floor, and kissed her pretty little hand to the astonished Dragoons.

"You're FOOTLES," she said, skipping up to the thunder-stricken owner
of the name. "I know you very well. I'm going to be your daughter,
and you're going to marry my mother. Oh, it's all right," she
continued, as she observed FOOTLES press his right hand convulsively
to the precise spot on his gorgeous mess-waistcoat under which he
imagined his heart to be situated, "it's all right. Pa's going to
be comfortably killed, and put out of the way, and then you'll
marry darling Mamma. She'll be a thousand times more beautiful at
thirty-three than she was at twenty-two, and _ever_ so much more
lovely at fifty-five than at thirty-three. So it's a good bargain,
isn't it, EM?" This to EMILY, who appeared confused. She trotted up
to him, and laid her soft blooming cheek against his blooming hard
one. "Never mind, EM," she lisped, "everything is bound to come out
right. I've settled it all"--this with a triumphant look on her
baby-face--"with the author; such a splendid writer, none of your
twaddling women-scribblers, but a real man, and a great friend of
mine. I'm to marry you, EM. You don't know it, because you once loved
NAOMI, who 'mawrwried the Wrevewrend SOLOMON'"--at this point most
of the Purple Dragoons were rude enough to yawn openly. She paid no
attention to them--"and now you love OLIVE, but she loves PARKACK,
and he doesn't love her, so she has got to marry PARKOSS, whom she
doesn't love. Their initials are the same, and everybody knows their
caligraphy is exactly alike," she went on wearily, "so that's how the
mistake arose. It's a bit far-fetched, but," and her arch smile as she
said this would have melted a harder heart than Captain EMILY's, "we
mustn't be too particular in a soldier's tale, you know."

As she concluded her remarks the door opened, and Colonel PURSER
entered the room.

CHAPTER III.

"Pat a cake, pat a cake, baker's man."
--_Old Ballad_.

Colonel PURSER was a stout, plethoric man. He was five feet seven
inches high, forty-five inches round the chest, fifty inches round
the waist, and every inch of him was a soldier. He was, therefore, a
host in himself. He gasped, and turned red, but, like a real soldier,
at once grasped the situation. The Colonel was powerful, and the