se at play.
His faculties were intensely strung at what may well be styled
"attention," and riveted on that desert land to which Fate--as he called
his own conduct--had driven him. Yet, strange to say, his mysterious
spirit found leisure to fly back to old England and revisit the scenes
of childhood. But he had robbed himself of pleasure in that usually
pleasant retrospect. He could see only the mild, sorrowful, slightly
reproachful, yet always loving face of his mother when in imagination he
returned home. It was more than he could bear. He turned to pleasanter
memories. He was back again at Portsmouth, in the reading-room of the
Soldiers' Institute, with red-coated comrades around him, busy with
newspaper and illustrated magazine, while the sweet sound of familiar
music came from the adjoining rooms, where a number of Blue Lights, or
rather red-coats, who were not ashamed to own and serve their Maker,
were engaged with songs of praise.

Suddenly he was back in Egypt with his heart thumping at his ribs. An
object seemed to move on the plain in front of him. The ready bayonet
was lowered, the trigger was touched. Only for a moment, however. The
shadow of a cloud had passed from behind a bush--that was all; yet it
was strange how very like to a real object it seemed to his
highly-strung vision. A bright moonbeam next moment showed him that
nothing to cause alarm was visible.

Mind is not so easily controlled as matter. Like a statue he stood
there in body, but in mind he had again deserted his post. Yet not to
so great a distance as before. He only went the length of Alexandria,
and thought of Marion! The thought produced a glow, not of physical
heat--that was impossible to one whose temperature had already risen to
the utmost attainable height--but a glow of soul. He became heroic! He
remembered Marion's burning words, and resolved that Duty should
henceforth be his guiding-star!

Duty! His heart sank as he thought of the word, for the Something
within him became suddenly active, and whispered, "How about your duty
to parents? You left them in a rage. You spent some time in
Portsmouth, surrounded by good influences, and might have written home,
but you didn't. You made some feeble attempts, indeed, but failed. You
might have done it several times since you landed in this country, but
you haven't. You know quite well that you have not fully repented even
yet!"

While the whispering was going o