s from the Crimea? The flesh who serves it is
bathing at Margate. The devil is keeping up his usual correspondence
with both. Eaton Square is a desolate wilderness, where dusty sparrows
alone disturb the dreams of frowzy charwomen, who, like Anchorites amid
the tombs of the Thebaid, fulfil the contemplative life each in her
subterranean cell. Beneath St. Peter's spire the cabman sleeps within
his cab, the horse without: the waterman, seated on his empty bucket,
contemplates the untrodden pavement between his feet, and is at rest.
The blue butcher's boy trots by with empty cart, five miles an hour,
instead of full fifteen, and stops to chat with the red postman, who,
his occupation gone, smokes with the green gatekeeper, and reviles the
Czar. Along the whole north pavement of the square only one figure
moves, and that is Major Campbell.

His face is haggard and anxious; he walks with a quick, excited step;
earnest enough, whoever else is not. For in front of Lord Scoutbush's
house the road is laid with straw. There is sickness there, anxiety,
bitter tears. Lucia has not found her husband, but she has lost her
child.

Trembling, Campbell raises the muffled knocker, and Bowie appears. "What
news to-day?" he whispers.

"As well as can be expected, sir, and as quiet as a lamb now, they say.
But it has been a bad time, and a bad man is he that caused it."

"A bad time, and a bad man. How is Miss St. Just?"

"Just gone to lie down, sir. Mrs. Clara is on the stairs, if you'd like
to see her."

"No; tell Miss St. Just that I have no news yet." And the Major turns
wearily away.

Clara, who has seen him from above, hurries down after him into the
street, and coaxes him to come in. "I am sure you have had no breakfast,
sir: and you look so ill and worn. And Miss St. Just will be so vexed
not to see you. She will get up the moment she hears you are here."

"No, my good Miss Clara," says Campbell, looking down with a weary
smile. "I should only make gloom more gloomy. Bowie, tell his lordship
that I shall be at the afternoon train to-morrow, let what will happen."

"Ay, ay, sir. We're a' ready to march. The Major looks very ill, Miss
Clara. I wish he'd have taken your counsel. And I wish ye'd take mine,
and marry me ere I march, just to try what it's like."

"I must mind my mistress, Mr. Bowie," says Clara.

"And how should I interfere with that, as I've said twenty times, when
I'm safe in the Crimea? I'll get the licenc