am said, "and our left is already engaged.
Come away. We are to march in three hours."

Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement at the news so
long looked for, so sudden when it came. What were love and intrigue
now? He thought about a thousand things but these in his rapid walk to
his quarters: his past life and future chances--the fate which might
be before him--the wife, the child perhaps, from whom unseen he might
be about to part. Oh, how he wished that night's work undone! and that
with a clear conscience at least he might say farewell to the tender
and guileless being by whose love he had set such little store.

He thought over his brief married life. In those few weeks he had
frightfully dissipated his little capital. How wild and reckless he
had been! Should any mischance befall him, what was then left for her?
How unworthy he was of her! Why had he married her? He was not fit for
marriage! Why had he disobeyed his father, who had been always so
generous to him? Hope, remorse, ambition, tenderness, and selfish
regret filled his heart. He sate down and wrote to his father,
remembering what he had said once before, when he was engaged to fight
a duel. Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this farewell
letter. He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He thought how he
had deserted that generous father, and of the thousand kindnesses
which the stern old man had done him.

He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered; she lay quiet,
and her eyes seemed closed, and he was glad that she was asleep. On
arriving at his quarters from the ball, he had found his regimental
servant already making preparations for his departure: the man had
understood his signal to be still, and these arrangements were very
quickly and silently made. Should he go in and wake Amelia, he
thought, or leave a note for her brother to break the news of
departure to her? He went in to look at her once again.

She had been awake when he first entered her room, but had kept her
eyes closed, so that even her wakefulness should not seem to reproach
him. But when he had returned,--so soon after herself, too,--this
timid little heart had felt more at ease; and turning towards him as
he stept softly out of the room, she had fallen into a light sleep.
George came in and looked at her again, entering still more softly. By
the pale night-lamp he could see her sweet, pale face: the purple
eyelids were fringed and closed, an