ting his pipe, which in the heat of
debate he had allowed to go out.

Several of the other men, having been reminded of the mail by the
conversation, also betook themselves to pen and pencil, though their
hands were more familiar with rifle and bayonet. Among these was Miles
Milton. Mindful of his recent thoughts, and re-impressed with the word
_Duty_, which his friend had just emphasised, he sat down and wrote a
distinctly self-condemnatory letter home. There was not a word of
excuse, explanation, or palliation in it from beginning to end. In
short, it expressed one idea throughout, and that was--Guilty! and of
course this was followed by his asking forgiveness. He had
forgiveness--though he knew it not--long before he asked it. His
broken-hearted father and his ever-hopeful mother had forgiven him in
their hearts long before--even before they received that treasured
fragment from Portsmouth, which began and ended with:

"Dearest Mother, I am sorry--"

After finishing and despatching the letter, Miles went out with a
feeling of lightness about his heart that he had not felt since that
wretched day when he forsook his father's house.

As it was still early in the afternoon he resolved to take a ramble in
the town, but, seeing Sergeant Gilroy and another man busy with the
Gardner gun on the roof of the redoubt, he turned aside to ask the
sergeant to accompany him; for Gilroy was a very genial Christian, and
Miles had lately begun to relish his earnest, intelligent talk, dashed
as it was with many a touch of humour.

The gun they were working with at the time had been used the day before
in ascertaining the exact range of several objects on the ground in
front.

"I'll be happy to go with you, Miles, after I've given this gun a
clean-out," said Gilroy. "Turn the handle, Sutherland."

"I'll turn the handle if it's a' richt," said the cautious Scot, with
some hesitation.

"It is all right," returned the sergeant. "We ran the feeder out last
night, you know, and I want to have the barrels cleaned. Turn away."

Thus ordered a second time, Sutherland obeyed and turned the handle.
The gun went off, and its contents passed through the sergeant's groin,
making a hole through which a man could have passed his arm.

He dropped at once, and while some ran for the doctor, and some for
water, others brought a stretcher to carry the poor fellow to hospital.
Meanwhile Miles, going down on his knees beside him, raised