of the jolly old Malays would stick his old kris right
through my heart, for there don't seem anything worth living for when
one can't have what one wants."

Rachel Linton gazed at him half sad and half amused.

"Do you wish me to think of you, Robert Roberts, with respect and
esteem?"

"I'd give all the world to be one of your dogs, Miss Linton, or your
bird."

"Do you mean to be a goose?" said Miss Linton, laughing. "There, I did
not mean to hurt your feelings," she added frankly; "but come, now, give
up all this silly nonsense, and try to remember that you are after all
but a boy, whom I want to look upon as a very dear friend."

"Do you really?" said Bob.

"I do, really," said Miss Linton, holding out her hand; "a friend whom I
can believe in and trust, out in this dangerous place, and one who will
not make my life wretched by being silly, romantic, and sentimental."

Bob gripped the hand extended to him, and held it for a few moments.

"There," he said firmly, as he seemed to shake himself together, "I see
it now. It's all right, Miss Linton; and it's better to be a brick of a
boy than a weak, puling noodle of a man, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is," cried Miss Linton, laughing merrily.

"There, I'm your man--I mean I'm your boy," cried Bob; "and I'll let you
see that I'm a very different fellow to what you think. Now I want to
go and see poor old Tom Long. I am sorry he's hurt."

"You are now more like the Bob Roberts, midshipman," said Miss Linton,
"whom I saw first some months ago, than I have seen for a long time."

"All right," said Bob; "now let's go and see the other poor boy."

"Come along, then," she said, smiling; "but I'm afraid that Tom Long
will not be so easy to convince that he has not yet arrived at years of
discretion."

As she spoke Miss Linton softly opened the door unseen, and let Bob
Roberts enter a cool and airy well-shaded room, closing the door upon
him, and herself gliding away.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

A DISCUSSION UPON WOUNDS.

"Avast there! what cheer, my hearty? Heave ahead, my military swab.
How goes it!" cried Bob, as Tom raised himself a little on his couch,
evidently very glad to see his old companion.

"Oh, not quite killed," he said. "Gently; don't shake a fellow to
pieces."

"Where's the wound?" cried Bob. "Ain't going to send in the number of
your mess, are you?"

"No, I'm not," cried Tom Long, flushing up; "and if I ever do come
across the chief fellow w