garden, yonder, full
of flowers."

"Seasons return, but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or Summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine--"

"Yet memory returns and consoles my blindness. The colour of the
wine is there, the flowers are about me, and Isabel--I am told--
resembles her mother. Yes, and away on the edge of Spain, the army I
served is planting fresh laurels--my old regiment too, the King's
Own, though James Brooks is by this time scarcely a name to it.
Here I sit, hale in wind and limb, and old age creeps on me kindly,
telling me that no man is necessary. And yet, if God should come and
lay a command on me--some task that a blind man might undertake--I am
at God's service. I sit with my loins girt and my soul, I hope,
shriven. That is my sermon to you, young sir: a clean breast and no
baggage. I bid you welcome to Minden Cottage!" He drank to me.

"Is it named from the battle of Minden, sir?" I asked.

"It is, my lad."

"Were you there?"

He laughed. "My father won his captaincy there, in a regiment that
mistook orders, charged three lines of cavalry, and broke them one
after another. It also broke a sound maxim of war by charging
between flanking batteries. The British Army has made half its
reputation by mistaking orders--you will understand why, if ever you
have the honour to belong to it. Isabel, get me my drum!"

She fetched it from its corner, with the drumsticks; hitched the
sling over her beautiful neck; tightened the straps carefully; and
began to play a soft tattoo.

The old man leaned back in his chair; felt in his pocket; and having
found a silk bandanna handkerchief, unfolded it deliberately, cast it
over his head and composed himself to slumber.

The tattoo ran on, peaceful as a brook. Isabel's arms hung lax and
motionless: only her hands stirred, from the wrists, and so slightly,
or else so rapidly without effort, that they too scarcely seemed to
move. Her eyes were averted.

My ear could not separate the short taps. They ran on and on
in a murmur as of bees or of leaves rustling together in a wood;
grew imperceptibly gentler; and almost imperceptibly ceased.
Isabel glanced at her father, and set the drum back in its corner.
We stole out of the summer-house together, and across to the orchard.

But under the shade of the apple-boughs she turned and faced me.

"Boy, what do you kn