olonel looked as a man only looks upon a poor
relation, and buttoned up first one trowser-pocket and then the other.

"I thought you were in Canada," said the Colonel at last.

Mr. Digby had now got breath to speak, and he said meekly, "The climate
would have killed my child, and it is two years since I returned."

"You ought to have found a very good place in England, to make it worth
your while to leave Canada."

"She could not have lived through another winter in Canada--the doctor
said so."

"Pooh," quoth the Colonel.

Mr. Digby drew a long breath. "I would not come to you, Colonel Pompley,
while you could think that I came as a beggar for myself."

The Colonel's brow relaxed. "A very honorable sentiment, Mr. Digby."

"No: I have gone through a great deal: but you see, Colonel," added the
poor relation, with a faint smile, "the campaign is well-nigh over, and
peace is at hand."

The Colonel seemed touched.

"Don't talk so, Digby--I don't like it. You are younger than I
am--nothing more disagreeable than these gloomy views of things. You
have got enough to live upon, you say--at least so I understand you. I
am very glad to hear it; and, indeed, I could not assist you, so many
claims on me. So it is all very well, Digby."

"Oh, Colonel Pompley," cried the soldier, clasping his hands, and with
feverish energy, "I am a suppliant, not for myself, but my child! I have
but one--only one--a girl. She has been so good to me. She will cost you
little. Take her when I die; promise her a shelter--a home. I ask no
more. You are my nearest relative. I have no other to look to. You have
no children of your own. She will be a blessing to you, as she has been
all upon earth to me!"

If Colonel Pompley's face was red in ordinary hours, no epithet
sufficiently rubicund or sanguineous can express its color at this
appeal. "The man's mad," he said at last, with a tone of astonishment
that almost concealed his wrath, "stark mad! I take his child!--lodge
and board a great, positive, hungry child! Why, sir, many and many a
time have I said to Mrs. Pompley, ''Tis a mercy we have no children. We
could never live in this style if we had children--never make both ends
meet.' Child--the most expensive, ravenous, ruinous thing in the
world--a child!"

"She has been accustomed to starve," said Mr. Digby, plaintively. "Oh,
Colonel, let me see your wife. _Her_ heart I can touch--she is a woman."

Unlucky father! A more untoward, un