y wheels, and a good contribution to the day's fog, already
in course of formation, with every grate in London panting to take
shares. Rosalind did not wait to see the black column of smoke start
for its chimney-pot, but went straight to the patient's bedside.

"Is that Rosey? I can't see very well. Come and sit beside me. I want
you." He was speaking more easily than before, so his hearer thought.
Could it be a change for the better? She put her finger on the pulse,
but it was hard to find. The fever had left him for the time being,
but its work was done. It was wonderful, though, that he should have
so much life in him for speech.

"What is it, Major dear?... Let's get the pillow right.... There,
that's better! Yes, dear; what is it?"

"I've got my marching orders, Rosey. I shall be all right. Shan't be
sorry ... when it's over.... Rosey girl, I want you to do something
for me.... Is my watch there, with the keys?"

"Yes, dear; the two little keys."

"The little one opens my desk ... with the brass corners.... Yes, that
one.... Open the top flap, and look in the little left-hand drawer.
Got it?"

"Yes; you want the letters out? There's only one packet."

"That's the lot. Read what's written on them."

"Only 'Emily, 1837.'"

"Quite right! That was your aunt, you know--your father's sister.
Don't cry, darling. Nothing to cry about! I'm only an old chap. There,
there!" Rosalind sat down again by the bed, keeping the packet of
letters in her hand. Presently the old man, who had closed his eyes as
though dozing, opened them and said: "Have you put them on the fire?"

"No. Was I to?"

"That was what I meant. I thought I said so.... Yes; pop 'em on."
Rosalind went to the fireside and stood hesitating, till the old man
repeated his last words; then threw the love-letters of sixty years
ago in a good hot place in the burning coal. A flare, and they were
white ash trying to escape from a valley of burning rocks; then even
that was free to rise. Maybe the only one who ever read them would be
soon--would be a mere attenuated ash, at least, as far as what lay on
that bed went, so pale and evanescent even now.

"A fool of a boy, Rosey dear," said the old voice, as she took her
place by the bed again. "Just a fool of a boy, to keep them all those
years. And _she_ married to another fellow, and a great-grandmother.
Ah, well!... don't you cry about it, Rosey.... All done now!" She may
have heard him wrong, for his voice