or two before we left home,
in the Madison Square Roof Garden. Have you seen 'Every Other Week'
lately?"

"No," said Burnamy, with more spirit than he had yet shown.

"We've just got our mail from Nuremberg. The last number has a poem in
it that I rather like." March laughed to see the young fellow's face
light up with joyful consciousness. "Come round to my hotel, after
you're tired here, and I'll let you see it. There's no hurry. Did you
notice the little children with their lanterns, as you came along?
It's the gentlest effect that a warlike memory ever came to. The French
themselves couldn't have minded those innocents carrying those soft
lights on the day of their disaster. You ought to get something out of
that, and I've got a subject in trust for you from Rose Adding. He
and his mother were at Wurzburg; I'm sorry to say the poor little chap
didn't seem very well. They've gone to Holland for the sea air." March
had been talking for quantity in compassion of the embarrassment in
which Burnamy seemed bound; but he questioned how far he ought to bring
comfort to the young fellow merely because he liked him. So far as
he could make out, Burnamy had been doing rather less than nothing to
retrieve himself since they had met; and it was by an impulse that he
could not have logically defended to Mrs. March that he resumed. "We
found another friend of yours in Wurzburg: Mr. Stoller."

"Mr. Stoller?" Burnamy faintly echoed.

"Yes; he was there to give his daughters a holiday during the
manoeuvres; and they made the most of it. He wanted us to go to the
parade with his family but we declined. The twins were pretty nearly the
death of General Triscoe."

Again Burnamy echoed him. "General Triscoe?"

"Ah, yes: I didn't tell you. General Triscoe and his daughter had
come on with Mrs. Adding and Rose. Kenby--you remember Kenby, On the
Norumbia?--Kenby happened to be there, too; we were quite a family
party; and Stoller got the general to drive out to the manoeuvres with
him and his girls."

Now that he was launched, March rather enjoyed letting himself go. He
did not know what he should say to Mrs. March when he came to confess
having told Burnamy everything before she got a chance at him; he pushed
on recklessly, upon the principle, which probably will not hold in
morals, that one may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. "I have a
message for you from Mr. Stoller."

"For me?" Burnamy gasped.

"I've been wondering