Gilroy the previous night to one of the
Institute entertainments in the great hall. The Sergeant had tried to
induce him to go to the Bible-class with him, but Miles was in no mood
for that at the time, and he was greatly relieved to find that neither
the Sergeant nor any of the people of the Institute annoyed him by
thrusting religious matters on his attention. Food, lodging, games,
library, baths, Bible-classes, prayer-meetings, entertainments were all
there to be used or let alone as he chose; perfect freedom of action
being one of the methods by which it was sought to render the place
attractive to the soldiers.

But although Miles at once refused to go to the class, he had no
objection to go to the entertainment.

It was a curious mixture of song, recitation, addresses, and readings,
in which many noble sentiments were uttered, and not a few humorous
anecdotes and incidents related. It was presided over by Tufnell, the
manager, a soldierly-looking man, who had himself originally been in the
army, and who had, for many years, been Miss Robinson's right-hand man.
There could not have been fewer than a thousand people in the hall, a
large proportion of whom were red-coats and blue-jackets, the rest being
civilians; and the way in which these applauded the sentiments, laughed
at the humour, and rejoiced in the music, showed that the provision for
their amusement was thoroughly appreciated.

Whether it was the feeling of good-fellowship and sympathy that pervaded
the meeting, or some word that was dropped at a venture and found root
in his heart, Miles could not tell, but certain it is that at that
entertainment he formed the resolution to write home before leaving.
Not that he had yet repented of the step he had taken, but he was sorry
for the manner in which he had done so, and for allowing so much time to
elapse that now the opportunity of seeing his parents before starting
was lost.

As it was impossible for him to write his letter in the noise of the
barrack-room, he went off next day to the reading-room of the Institute,
and there, with no other sounds to disturb him than the deep breathing
of some studious red-coats, and the chirping pen of a comrade engaged
like himself, he began to write.

But his thoughts somehow would not work. His pen would not write. He
even fancied that it had a sort of objection to spell. So it had, when
not properly guided by his hesitating hand. The first part went
swimmin