t
lives and moves and has its being awaits the military smile. And the
smile is smiled. And so, I tell you what it is, my dear fellow, it
amounts to this, that the life of an officer isn't by any means the
butterfly existence that you imagine it to be. What with patronizing
Tom, Dick, and Harry, inspecting militia, spouting at volunteers,
subscribing to charities, buying at bazaars, assisting at concerts,
presiding at public dinners, and all that sort of thing no end, it gets
to be a pretty difficult matter to keep body and soul together.

The concert under consideration happened to be a popular one. The best
of the regimental bands had been kindly lent to assist, and there were
songs by amateurs who belonged to the first circles in Quebec, both
civil and military. It was quite a medley, and the proceeds were
intended for some charitable purpose or other. The house was crowded,
and I could not get a seat without extreme difficulty.

The concert went on. They sang "Annie Laurie," of course. Then followed
"La ci darem;" then "D'un Pescator Ignobile;" then "Come gentil;" then
"Auld Lang-syne;" then "Ah, mon Fils!" then "Roy's Wife of
Aldivalloch;" then "The Last Rose of Summer;" then "Allister
MacAllister;" then "The Harp that once through Tara's Halls."

As this last song was being sung, I became aware of an old gentleman
near me who seemed to be profoundly affected. "The Last Rose of Summer"
had evidently touched him, but Tara had an overpowering effect on him.
It was sung confoundedly well, too. The band came in with a wild,
trailing strain, that was positively heart-breaking. The party just
mentioned was, as I said, old, and a gentleman, but he was tall,
robust, broad-shouldered, with eagle-like beak, and keen gray eyes that
were fitting accompaniments to so distinguished a feature. His dress
was rather careless, but his air and the expression of his face evinced
a mixture of eccentricity and a sense of superiority. At least, it had
evinced this until the singing of Tara. Then he broke down. First he
bowed his head down, resting his forehead upon his hands, which were
supported by his cane, and several deep-drawn sighs escaped him. Then
he raised his head again, and looked up at the ceiling with an evident
effort to assume a careless expression. Then he again hid his face. But
the song went on, and the melancholy frail of the accompaniment
continued, and at last the old gentleman ceased to struggle, and gave
himself