amillie coat she blushed and started instinctively so lifelike was
that broad back and the set of those square shoulders.

And now in dainty night-rail and be-ribanded cap she sat down and
leaned near to snuff delicately at the worn and faded garment.

Tobacco! How coarse and hateful! And yet how vividly it brought his
stately presence before her, his slow, grave smile, his clear, youthful
eyes, his serene brow, and all his shy yet virile personality.

Tobacco! Him! O was there in all the world quite such another man, so
brave, so chivalrous--and so unmodish?

Here in the sleeve was a rent, even as the Sergeant had said, and very
featly mended by the Sergeant's own skilful fingers; a jagged rent it
had been and even now she could see a faint stain--she shivered, for
now she saw other like stains were here also. So my lady shuddered,
yet, doing so, leaned nearer and drew the threadbare sleeve about her
snowy neck and thus espied the yawning side-pocket. My lady peeped
into it, hesitated, then plunged slim hand into those cavernous depths.

His clay pipe. His silver tobacco-box. A mass of torn paper. A
letter sealed with his signet, and my lady sighed rapturously for it
was addressed thus:

"To Lady Elizabeth Carlyon."

With this in one hand, the Ramillie coat in the other, she crossed to
her great high bed and, seated there, the coat beside her on laced
pillow, drew the candles a little nearer, broke the seals and read:

"DEAR LADY AND MY LOVE,

When you receive this I shall be beyond seas and 'tis like I shall not
see you again for I leave suddenly and unknown to any.

All this summer afternoon I have sat here striving to tell you why this
must be, and now my labour is lost for I have destroyed my letter since
it doth seem that it might perchance have pained you to read it almost
as much as me to write. So I have destroyed it since I would spare you
pain now and ever. Of late I have been sick, not of body so much as
mind, and mayhap once or twice have suffered harsh thoughts of thee,
but to-day these are gone and out of mind, and love for thee burns
within me true and steadfast as it shall do until I cease to be--aye,
and beyond. For if I have grieved of late yet have I known joys
undreamed and have looked and seen what Happiness is like unto,
wherefore I do not repine that Happiness hath not stayed. Love and I
have lived so long estranged that now methinks I am not fitted, so do I
go back