wished to speak to him, but was too wise to disturb
him in the midst of those throes of mental labor. But, when pausing
suddenly in his walk, he pressed his forefinger on his temple, and
exclaimed, "I had it last night, and now I have lost it!" his
confidential man thought it time to speak. "What is it, sir, shall I
look for it?"

L'Isle stared at him, as if just roused from a reverie, and bursting
into a hearty laugh, bid him go down stairs until he called for him.

Down stairs he went, and told his two companions that their master was
at work on the toughest despatch or report, or something of that sort,
he had ever had to make in his life, adding, "I would not be surprised
if something came of it."

"I have not a doubt," answered Tom, the groom, in a confident tone,
"that the colonel has found out some new way to jockey the French, and
is about to lay it before Sir Rowland Hill, or, perhaps my Lord
Wellington himself."

Being men of leisure, they were still busy discussing their master's
affairs, and had begun to wonder if he had forgotten that it was time
to go to dinner, when L'Isle called for his man; but it was only to
bid him send the groom up to him.

With an obedient start, Tom hastened up stairs. In a few minutes, he
came down with an exceedingly neatly folded despatch in his hand. He
seemed to have gained in that short interval no little accession of
importance. He had quite sunk the groom, and strode into the room with
the air of an ambassador.

"Now, my lads, without even stopping to wet my whistle," said he, "I
will but sharpen my spurs, saddle my horse, and then--"

"What then?" asked his comrades.

"I will ride off on my important mission."

"Were you right?" asked L'Isle's gentleman. "Is that for Sir Rowland
Hill?"

"Sir Rowland," answered Tom, carelessly, "is not the most considerable
personage with whom master may correspond. And as the army post goes
every day to _Coria_, he would hardly send me thither."

"Can it be for the commander-in-chief?" suggested the footman. "That
is farther off still."

"You are but half-right," said Tom, contemptuously; "for it is not so
far," and, holding up the letter, he pretended to read the direction:
"'To his excellency, Lieutenant-General Sir Mabel Stewart,
commander-in-chief of his majesty's forces in these parts.' If you had
not been blockheads, you might have known it, from the extraordinary
neatness of the rose-colored envelope, with its figure