again.

"Is he going, sir?"

"Going? he's gone!"

The words were followed by an awful silence; then, for an instant, the
yellow gleam of the lamp tell upon the soldier's face.

"Come, come, my lad!" said the medical officer kindly, "we did what we
could for him, but it was hopeless from the first. Be thankful that
you've got a whole skin yourself. You'd better rejoin your company."

The sky was paling with the first indications of the coming dawn. The
men were standing to their arms, and Jack hurried away to take his
place in the ranks, hiding his grief as best he could from the eyes of
his comrades. Then as he turned to look once more towards the spot
whence he had come, he saw, away across the river, the flush of rosy
light brighten in the east, and all unbidden there came back to his
memory the words of Queen Mab's hymn. The sun rose with a red glare,
scattering the mist and sending a glow of warmth across the desert; and
once more the old, sweet melody was sounding in his heart, while all
around seemed telling of hopes fulfilled and sorrows vanquished when

"Morning's joy shall end the night of weeping."

CHAPTER XXI.

"WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME AGAIN!"

"It touched the tin soldier so much to see her that he almost wept tin
tears, but he kept them back. He looked at her, and they both remained
silent."--_The Brave Tin Soldier_.

It was a hot, still afternoon in August. The birds were silent, hardly
a leaf stirred, and everything seemed to have dozed off to sleep in the
quiet sunshine. Old Ned Brown, the cobbler, and general "handy-man" of
the village, who, in days gone by, had often bound bats and done other
odd jobs for "Miss Fenleigh's young nevies," laid down his awl, and
gazed out of the window of his dingy little shop.

A soldier was walking slowly down the road. His boots were covered
with dust, and on the breast of his red coat glittered the Egyptian
medal and the Khedive's Cross.

"That must be Widow Crouch's son," said Ned to himself. "I heard he
was back from the war. Maybe he'll know summat about the young
gen'leman who used to come and stay up at the house yonder, and who,
they say, was killed. Ah, yes! I remember him well--a nice,
pleasant-spoken young chap! Dear me, dear me! sad work, sad work!"
With a shake of his head, the old man once more picked up the shoe he
was mending, still muttering to himself, "Yes, I remember him--sad
work, sad work!"

The sold