hand had grasped his arm, and he turned to
gaze at the clarionet-player who was supporting him.

"What is it? A bit faint?"

"I--I don't know," faltered Dick.

"I do. That's it. You've been blowing a bit too hard. Don't play any
more. We've just done."

A minute or two gave the lad time to try and recover himself.

"Yes, that's it," said the clarionet-player; "you got excited, and
played too hard. I remember being once like that; I shivered just as
you are shivering now. Doctor said it was only nerves."

"Only nerves!" said Dick, in a low tone, involuntarily repeating the
man's words.

"Yes, that's it. Keep cool, and you'll soon come right. Feel faint
now?"

"No, the giddiness has gone off."

"That's right."

The bandsman ceased speaking, for he had to take his part again, as the
rear of the new regiment marched past with the mounted officers. Then
followed an ambulance waggon, the water-tub, two or three baggage
waggons, and half a dozen men who had fallen out on the march, all of
whom Dick saw as if it were part of a dream, which lasted, in a confused
way, as he and his companion joined their own regiment, took their place
at the head, and returned to their own quarters.

"Getting all right, again?" said the clarionet-player, as they stood
together in the barrack yard waiting to be dismissed.

"What is it? What's the matter?" asked Wilkins, sourly.

"Smithson sick, sir," was the reply.

The bandmaster looked at his principal flute curiously, but said
nothing.

The next minute they were dismissed, and Dick longed in vain for a place
where he could be alone, the only approach to it being the open window,
where, after the customary change of uniform and wash and clean, he sat
gazing out at the sky, but seeing no bright silvery clouds--nothing but
the face of that young officer and the old ruins down by the flooded
river; for it seemed to Dick Smithson that--in spite of what had been
written about midnight and the witching hour--he had seen a ghost, and
in the broad daylight, too.

He tried to cast the idea from him again and again, but that face would
return, wonderful in its resemblance, and at last a painful, feverish
fit came on; for the countenance he had that day gazed upon, and which
had impressed him so painfully, brought up all the old life which he had
tried so hard and successfully to forget.

"It's like a punishment to me, for trying to forget that which I ought
always to bear