n her childhood. She had never
asked for Jim, nor for my father and mother who had been so kind to her.
Well, it was just her way, and she could no more help it than a rabbit
can help wagging its scut, and yet it made me heavy-hearted to think of
it. Two months later I heard that she had married this same Count de
Beton, and she died in child-bed a year or two later.

And as for us, our work was done, for the great shadow had been cleared
away from Europe, and should no longer be thrown across the breadth of
the lands, over peaceful farms and little villages, darkening the lives
which should have been so happy. I came back to Corriemuir after I had
bought my discharge, and there, when my father died, I took over the
sheep-farm, and married Lucy Deane, of Berwick, and have brought up
seven children, who are all taller than their father, and take mighty
good care that he shall not forget it. But in the quiet, peaceful days
that pass now, each as like the other as so many Scotch tups, I can
hardly get the young folks to believe that even here we have had our
romance, when Jim and I went a-wooing, and the man with the cat's
whiskers came up from the sea.

THE CRIME OF THE BRIGADIER.

In all the great hosts of France there was only one officer towards whom
the English of Wellington's army retained a deep, steady, and
unchangeable hatred. There were plunderers among the French, and men of
violence, gamblers, duellists, and _roues_. All these could be
forgiven, for others of their kidney were to be found among the ranks of
the English. But one officer of Massena's force had committed a crime
which was unspeakable, unheard of, abominable; only to be alluded to
with curses late in the evening, when a second bottle had loosened the
tongues of men. The news of it was carried back to England, and country
gentlemen who knew little of the details of the war grew crimson with
passion when they heard of it, and yeomen of the shires raised freckled
fists to Heaven and swore. And yet who should be the doer of this
dreadful deed but our friend the Brigadier, Etienne Gerard, of the
Hussars of Conflans, gay-riding, plume-tossing, debonnaire, the darling
of the ladies and of the six brigades of light cavalry.

But the strange part of it is that this gallant gentleman did this
hateful thing, and made himself the most unpopular man in the Peninsula,
without ever knowing that he had done a crime for which there is hardly
a